The Upstairs and the Green Cup

The house upstairs smells of dust and old lavender. A window shows late autumn, yellow leaves clinging to branches that should bear summer fruit. I kneel on the worn parquet floor. A green enamel cup rests on the sill, the porcelain rim stained yellow. Across the room, a chair waits, folded and angled toward the main hallway. A child's drawing, crayon wax dull on the heavy paper, depicts the front view of my old kitchen. Someone waits for me, a quiet weight in the air, a gentle pressure on the chest. I reach for the drawing. The window glass is cool to the touch. The air shifts; a sound of distant scrubbing drifts from below, a rhythm not quite right for the time of day. I lift my hand.