packing up

She stood in her mother's kitchen, the cabinets empty and bare. The countertops were wiped clean, the only sound the hum of the refrigerator. She packed up the last of the dishes, the plates and bowls wrapping in paper. Her mother had moved to an assisted living home, the decision made months ago. She put the dishes in a box, the weight of them familiar. She thought about all the meals they'd eaten in this kitchen, the laughter and arguments. She sealed the box, the tape ripping off the roll. She labeled it, the marker scratching across the surface. She put it with the other boxes, the pile growing. She looked around the kitchen, the space empty and still. She thought about her mother, the way she used to cook and bake. The kitchen had been her domain, the heart of the house. Now it was empty, the only sound the echo of memories. She packed up the last of the kitchen, the task finished. She stood back, looking at the empty space. The kitchen was just a room now, the heart gone. She took a deep breath, the air thick with memories. She turned off the lights, the kitchen plunging into darkness. She locked the door, the sound echoing through the empty house.