The Walk Home

The Walk Home

By [Zia Urrehman]

Every day after school, I take the long way home. Not because the view is nice—it's mostly cracked sidewalks, flickering street lamps, and the occasional barking dog—but because of the house on the corner. Mrs. DeLaney’s house.

It’s empty now. Curtains drawn tight like closed eyes. Porch swing still. A thin film of dust coats the windowpanes, and the garden, once overflowing with marigolds and lavender, now lies wild and forgotten. But in my mind, she’s still there. Waiting on the porch, cradling her mug of cinnamon tea, eyes twinkling as she watches the world drift past.

I was seven when I met her. I’d been throwing rocks at a crow in her yard, bored and bitter after a rough day at school. She didn’t yell like I expected. Instead, she called out, “They remember faces, you know. Crows. They hold grudges.”

I froze. She sat in a rocking chair, wrapped in a shawl the color of mustard, sipping tea. “You look like you could use a cookie,” she added.

That was all it took. One warning, one cookie, and I was hooked.

From that day forward, I found myself wandering to her porch more often than not. She became my after-school therapist, tea-time companion, and keeper of all my little secrets. When home felt too loud or too empty, she was there—calm, wise, endlessly patient.

Now I’m seventeen, and the porch has been quiet for months.

Today, the sky hangs low, smeared in shades of grey. There’s that electric smell in the air—the kind that signals rain is coming. I slow my pace as I near her house, heart tapping a jittery rhythm inside my chest. It’s foolish, I know. But sometimes I still expect to see her on that porch, waiting for me with a knowing smile.

“Why the long face, Lila?”

I nearly jump. Not because someone said it—no one did. But because I hear it anyway. Her voice, soft and amused, floats through my mind like the memory it’s become.

“Bad test,” I mumble, even though the street is empty.

I drop onto the curb across from her yard, same spot I used to sit when I pretended I didn’t need advice. I dig into my backpack and pull out a folded, weathered piece of paper. A letter I wrote two weeks after her funeral. I never sent it, of course. Didn’t know where to send it. But I carry it with me most days, tucked beside my notebooks like a quiet reminder.

I unfold it gently. The paper is creased and faded, the ink smudged where my tears soaked through the lines.

I read it aloud, my voice barely more than a whisper.

Dear Mrs. DeLaney,

I made it to senior year. It feels too fast and not fast enough. Remember when you said growing up is like drinking hot tea through a straw? Scalding and slow all at once? I didn’t get it then. I do now.

Mom still talks too loud on the phone. Dad’s still working late. But I joined the debate team, just like you said I should. And I wore that hideous yellow sweater you gave me last winter. I still hate it, but it smells like your oatmeal cookies. I needed that last week.

I keep thinking about our last conversation. Or the one we never got to have. I was mad at you, remember? Mad that you canceled tea time again. I didn’t know you were sick. You didn’t show it.

I wanted to tell you—I got into your alma mater. I used the letter you helped me write. I never got to say thank you. I never got to say goodbye.

I pause, staring at the empty windows. For a heartbeat, I imagine they flicker with movement. But it’s just the wind nudging the blinds.

Carefully, I refold the letter and tuck it into the crack in the front gate. Just like I used to leave thank-you notes after our chats.

Then I hear it.

The porch swing creaks.

I freeze. The wind rustles the hedges. Maybe it’s nothing. But maybe, just maybe…

“Would she be proud of me?” I whisper.

There’s no voice in return. Just the sound of distant thunder and the patter of raindrops beginning to fall.

But I know the answer. It's tucked beneath my ribs, lodged in the part of me she helped shape. I feel it the way you feel warmth after stepping into a sunlit room.

She already was.

The rain falls steadier now, soft and rhythmic. I pull up my hood and rise, glancing once more at the porch. It’s still empty. But the swing rocks gently, like someone just stepped away.

I head home, the path ahead blurry with mist and memory. But I feel lighter somehow. Like the conversation I never had... had finally happened.

And she heard every word.