Tabitha - Stay With Me

The screen door claps shut behind us. The rain keeps falling. But inside, the kitchen light is still on. The two plates are still on the table. And for the first time in a long time, no one is standing in the doorway, saying goodbye to someone who is already gone.

The rain doesn't knock anymore. It just starts—a sudden, heavy curtain that turns the driveway into a river of loose gravel and last autumn’s leaves. I am standing in the open doorway, the screen door whining on its hinge, and I am saying it again. tabitha stay with me

She finally turns. Her face is pale, wet, and I can’t tell if it’s rain or tears. Maybe both. Maybe that’s the same thing now. The screen door claps shut behind us

She doesn’t turn around. She is ten feet away, her back to me, the hood of her yellow raincoat already dark with water. The suitcase in her hand is the small one, the overnight bag she used to pack for her mother’s house every other weekend. It looks wrong in the rain. Too small for a whole life. The two plates are still on the table