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Fun fact: I actually hate naming my own creative works. It feels oddly self serving and I struggle with it. Most the names of my stories come from friends or creative partners, this one hasn't found its name yet.

In the beginning,

The small hand moves past the big one. There is recognition, an understanding of moving forward, of aging. Days and nights of youth, spent catching light-bugs and listening to sounds of waves in the distance. The rustling of falling leaves in autumn.

Baked pies left in windows, cookies hidden in jars, all surrendering to eager fingers - eventually caught and slapped. Laughter filling the halls of a house called home. Once.

Holidays spent with family, gifts exchanged over the years. The first real present a small circle attached to a band. Small hands moving past big ones.

Then it’s her, a yearning for something more than dragging sticks along the fence, spinning endlessly in tires hanging from trees, of whistling by the riverside. It’s desire. Bright brown hair brightened by the sun, or is it her smile?

A first kiss right after school, cards stuck in bicycle’s wheels flapping loudly as it speeds all the way to a house called home. Once.

It goes on like this, new desires, bicycles to cars, until finally it has to stop.

A knock on the door, a somber answer, a crying woman just inside the doorway as she drops an envelope’s contents on the floor.

The roaring of planes and boots and gunfire. That letter in the past a life sentence for a greater purpose. Recalling desires as comrades and corporates perish to the left, as houses burn to the right. Is this the end? Dying in the line of duty? It’s all a blur.

Finally free of anxiety. No more weapons, no more tanks, just an empty house to one day call home. And it is for a while. A new desire begins soon after.

Bright brown hair reminiscent of the first, but this one gets a ring. Dates, during which there’s making out in cars, parked in front of giant movie screens. Dancing and drinking more than is advised, but living life. Soon there’s a call inside the house called home. But nothing’s wrong. There are screams of joy as she holds her tummy and drops the phone with the doctor on the line. Time to leave for a bigger house, a bigger home.

Months later there are small hands moving past big ones.

A few more years go by in a flash and then one day there’s pain. The family is out in the back, a hot summer’s day. Lemonade waits in a pitcher on a table on the patio, water slowly dripping down the pitcher’s side. There’s a pain never felt before, but it’s strong. It thuds against the chest until finally there’s blackness.

In and out in a white lit room. Various images of the family built over the years, all crying except for the one still too small to understand. But one day.

Finally, the white lit room comes into full focus. A woman is crying to the left, the best thing to ever happen, the best wife imaginable. Hands meet as tears fall on them, and then there is silence.

Memories dance on the leaves of autumn as the family gathers together. They look despairingly in front of them, some crying, others in shock. The one still too young to understand looks down at their wrist; looks at the small circle attached to a band, watching the small hand move past the big one. There’s a recognition, an understanding of moving forward, of aging.

The lid is closed.

The final home is lowered.

The story ends.