POETIC JUSTICE | #Wattys2016

poetic justice, put it

we stand outside for five whole minutes until i am brave enough to ring the doorbell. my hands shake and falter as if its several degrees colder outside than it really is.

i press the bell once, and when she doesn't answer, i swivel around on my heel and grab addie's arm quickly behind me.

"we should go, okay, addie, she's probably out with someone tonight, i gotta get back to my apartment —"

"asami, no," she says forcefully, dragging me back to the steps. she places her small hands on my shoulders.

"you are not a coward. you never have been. stop pretending you are."

so i stop. i still my hands and ring the doorbell two more times, and on the second one, my mother appears in the doorframe.

"asami," she breathes out in surprise. her eyes gaze over beside me.

"and addie bishop in the flesh, oh my goodness. i'm so—it's very good to see you, both of you. i didn't think you would really come."

"me neither," i say numbly. addie squeezes my wrist.

"it's good to see you too," i amend. my mother nods gently, the corners of her lips forming a sad smile. i follow her reluctantly into the house, addie trailing behind me.

i am shocked to see how much has changed and how much has stayed the same.

the bathroom lights are fixed. fluorescent, white light. addie glows in it. i remember asking for white light bulbs for a birthday one year. and here they were.

the kitchen now scents permanently of togarashi spice, and irreversible marks stain the floors and ceilings. a cookbook lies on the dining room table, covered in a new, smoky brown cloth. it matches chair set.

she is cleaner, now.

i circle the house in mounting awe—the staircase leading up stairs is a pristine though off-white; the carpet threads are remain attached; the walls gleam with new paint, blue and white, alternating in different rooms.

it looked like no one had lived in it for a long time. a house is only a house, until people make it a home.

i continue walking through. i turn left at the top of the staircase, my pulse buzzing soundlessly.

"this is my room," i whisper to addie, standing before a broken door. she glances up at me for permission, and then opens the door herself.

it's like muscle-memory, how smoothly everything falls back into place.

my bedroom, once dedicated to bookshelves and party decorations shoved underneath my clothes in the closet, the home of our small christmas tree from february to november and everything else that had nowhere to go, is now spilling with art. my art, specifically — the canvases i hated, or never finished. sketches from school and haphazard attempts at scuttling. canisters of paint and brushes sit idly by easels, untouched, like they were waiting for me.

"did your mother do all this for you?" addie asks in astonishment.

it was beyond me ever imagine her doing something like this. but then i remember the way we used to be — the softness, the warmth of our quiet house, and i am sure it is her doing.

"this is beautiful," addie sighs.

"thank you," a voice says from behind. i switch my head around to see my mother standing awkwardly by the doorframe.

"i'm going to see downstairs now, okay? i'll be right back," addie says knowingly, and kisses me lightly on the cheek. she grins at my mother and glides beside her, out of the room.