Leaving Home

    I slowly walk through the house, looking at what is in each room and how it is presented. 
    The dining room is immaculate, the cherry table and chairs gleaming in the afternoon sunlight through the floor-to-ceiling windows on the west wall. The kitchen is spotless, stainless-steel counters shining from the scrubbing they received this morning; all small appliances are stored in their respective cabinets, and the floor has been freshly waxed.
    The pantry, utility room and mud room look as if they have never been used – everything spotless and in its place. The downstairs half-bath, situated under the staircase also appears as if it has never been used.
    I walk to the living room and inspect it for its readiness for company. All is as expected, perfectly cleaned and arranged, couch pillows fluffed nicely, firewood and kindling in the fireplace awaiting a match to bring forth warmth.
    The office is as Frank likes it, everything filed neatly, the leather-covered chair pushed up to the mahogany desk, inside shutters closed against prying eyes. I walk out of the office and go to the stairs.

    The carpet on the stairs has been thoroughly vacuumed, and there is no hint of dust on the oaken banister, nor on the baseboards highlighting the carpet’s rich colors in the upstairs hallway. Doorknobs are sparkling clean, and no spider webs dangle from the ceiling today.
    I check the guest bedrooms; there is nothing out of place, nor anything that needs to be done to them nor their en suite bathrooms. The upstairs bathroom is sanitized, and monogrammed towels are hanging neatly on rods by the sink and walk-in shower. 

    I walk into the master bedroom and stop at the foot of the bed. The walnut sleigh bed has been polished by two generations of women’s hard-working hands. It is still as sturdy and beautiful as it was one hundred years ago. The double wedding ring quilt shows its colors as well today as it did when Frank’s grandmother hand-stitched it for us.
    The dresser and its matching bench, and the chest-of-drawers, are excellent examples of a craftsman’s dedication to his work. A runner I crocheted decorates the top of the chest-of-drawers.
    Satisfied the bedroom furniture and its accoutrements are properly tidy, I step to the walk-in closet and open the double doors. The contents are all in their proper place and neatly stored. I walk into the closet, mindlessly running my fingertips along the clothing there – Frank’s shirts, suits, casual clothing on the left, my tee’s, jeans, a few pairs of chinos and some button-up shirts on the right. The rear of the closet branches, Frank’s formal clothing and assorted shoes to the left, mine to the right. Tuxedos and sparkly evening gowns, shoes to match, and shoes for any sort of weather, a few purses on my side, and to the far right, unobscured by clothing of any sort, is a safe. 
    I regard the safe for a few moments. I know the combination, and the wealth that is inside – loose diamonds, rubies, emeralds, some bundles of cash, several expensive pieces of jewelry, and a hundred or so ounces of gold. I examine the diamond-encrusted wedding band on my left hand, spin it around on my finger a couple of times, then remove it and place it on top of the safe.
    I glance down at my clothing – V-neck T-shirt, Levi’s, well-worn Dingo boots – and ponder my decision to leave with nothing but the clothes I am wearing. Wise? Probably  not. Heartfelt? Yes.
    I leave the closet, not closing the doors behind me, walk out of the bedroom, down the hall and back down the stairs. When I arrive at the front door, I turn and gaze across the foyer at the house I once considered my home. No more.

    I turn back to the front door with its etched-glass panels and open it. I take a book of matches from my back pocket, remove one, strike it, and toss it onto the gasoline-soaked Persian rug lying on the highly-varnished oak floor, then step across the threshold onto the front stoop, shut the door behind me as flames erupt on the rug, and walk away.