Left Overs

The rented house my mother moved us into after the divorce had been empty of humans for years. In this absence others had laid claim to it—scurrying feet and squeaks inside the walls and above our heads in the attic; tiny beetles up through the drains in the bathroom—sharp black against the chipped white porcelain; and in the kitchen sink among the dirty dishes, left there sometimes for hours until my sister and I finished arguing about whose turn it was to wash them, a hoard of minuscule ants feasting on crumbs, living on left overs like us.

Inspired by just wanting to get off the cat track. Image by DALL-E.