Late

It's been a month. One long, struggling month. Almost forty days.  I am here riding a cab, looking at the horizon. It's empty but mirage. I can sense that the cabbie is glancing at me through the mirror from time to time. I wanted to shout at him and say "what?!" but instead I ignored him. I don't think I have enough strength to do that. We're almost there. I can see from the distance the dilapidated house. Abandoned.

I unlocked the bolt. Got inside and smelled the lush vegetation. A rat ran past me. I slowly walked inside and put my bag on the empty, dusty table. I gazed around. Gosh, I miss this place. I miss the inhabitants of this place. How long has it been? The wall clock chimed. I can't believe it's still working. I went into the kitchen. Everything seems to be in order except for the dusts on the counters and appliances.

I went upstairs, entered the familiar room. Books stacked along the bookshelf. The bed is scruffy. When I left years ago, the sheet on that bed was well tucked in. I left screaming and shouting to my hearts content. I didn't listen to the beggings, cryings, and sorrys when it was my fault all along.

I looked at the antique dresser and saw that old frame. I came closer and watched the familiar face, eyes glittering with happiness. It was taken during mothe'rs day. I was the one who took it. My throat aches. Suddenly, there's a lump on my throat. I picked up the frame. I tried to suppress the pain but I can't help it. Pain and grief are enveloping me. I'm missing her. I can never see that face smile at me again. Not even a scold, not even a nag. I'm so sorry. I love you. I know it's too late for that. Tears suddenly came rushing down my cheeks.