"Stroller"
By Brandon Rebidue
As he walks past the house where he lived when she died he pauses momentarily. He looks up at the renovated
duplex and tries to recall what living there was like. Over two decades removed from this place of residence he can
only recall a few scattered holidays and the day she left him. But the house has changed, the new owners have
renovated it to almost beyond recognition. The shed his grandfather had built for he and his siblings had been torn
down and never reaplaced. Vinyl siding had been put up in the interrim and new light fixtures installed. There was no
longer any evidence that years ago a car crashed through the living room. The once defining features of the old
place are gone to him. Yet he still has the urge to knock on the door and ask for a little tour. He wants to know what
happened to his old room, or if kitchen still has his undeniable mark on it. The temptation isn’t strong enough for him
to knock though, he sees the lights are on and one of the current residents peeks from behind venetian blinds at
him as he turns his back on the door. Its really not my home anymore is the only thought swimming around in his
mind. His memories are there, but the physical connection is long gone, he doesn’t want to swim in his past to much
longer so he turns his attention back to his stroll and away from his childhood home.
By Brandon Rebidue
As he walks past the house where he lived when she died he pauses momentarily. He looks up at the renovated
duplex and tries to recall what living there was like. Over two decades removed from this place of residence he can
only recall a few scattered holidays and the day she left him. But the house has changed, the new owners have
renovated it to almost beyond recognition. The shed his grandfather had built for he and his siblings had been torn
down and never reaplaced. Vinyl siding had been put up in the interrim and new light fixtures installed. There was no
longer any evidence that years ago a car crashed through the living room. The once defining features of the old
place are gone to him. Yet he still has the urge to knock on the door and ask for a little tour. He wants to know what
happened to his old room, or if kitchen still has his undeniable mark on it. The temptation isn’t strong enough for him
to knock though, he sees the lights are on and one of the current residents peeks from behind venetian blinds at
him as he turns his back on the door. Its really not my home anymore is the only thought swimming around in his
mind. His memories are there, but the physical connection is long gone, he doesn’t want to swim in his past to much
longer so he turns his attention back to his stroll and away from his childhood home.
New Hampshire Writers Flash Fiction
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