Empty Houses
I have this fantasy that all the people in the world will suddenly
disappear, except for me, that they will vanish in mid-moment and there
will be evidence of their actions left behind. Cakes will still be baking
in ovens; faucets will run water into sinks, cars will idle in driveways
or in the middle of roads. And I will live in new houses, eat expensive
cheeses and chocolates, prepare dinners of the vanished people's food. I
will wear their necklaces, take their baths, sleep on their smooth
pillowcases, prance around the empty neighborhoods in fine dresses. I
will pet someone's ten-year-old cat. I will read diaries, smoke cigars,
leave lights on.
I will take joy rides through the desert in antique cars and not worry
about becoming a police suspect. I will chase storms, learn how to be
patient for tornadoes. I will find high places with nice echoes and
practice my yodel. I will watch sunsets on long highways, pump
high-octane gas, make my way into cities and then return to the suburbs
with sunburned arms.
And when the people begin to reappear, slow at first and confused, a
couple at a time, I will hear the houses settling with their bodies,
listen to their footsteps on the streets. Conversations will begin again.
After some weeks the world will be full again and the towns warm. People
will laugh, fight, rejoice, but none will remember being gone.
I will find an island full of sea birds and build boats from its banana
trees. And at night when I sleep on the open beach, the lights of the
busy landmasses will flash against the ocean.
Lydia Copeland is from East Tennessee and her work has appeared in or is forthcoming in Glimmer Train, Eyeshot, and a few others. She is also the occassional fiction editor for the online magazine diceybrown.com.