Cardboard boxes littered the new house. It wasn’t new per say, the pale blue paint was peeling on the front veranda and a mysterious stain surrounded the tap in the bathroom. But this was the first time Jackie had been in this house. Her Mother had decided this change was good for them.

She was right, of course, Jackie didn’t know how much more she could handle of the memories that plagued that old suburban house.

Lifting the final, heavy moving box, Jackie took two lefts and found her new room.

Walls painted a pastel pink recently, the floor carpeted with new carpet – a soft fluffy kind of feel beneath her feet. The room smelled strong.

Eyes darting around, her bed and desk had been set up. Her Fathers inheritance paid for the new double bed that stuck out like a sore thumb in the room – blue racecar sheets she had picked out. The curtains were a thin pink material, lighting the room in that colour. Four bare walls held up an equally plain roof.

Sighing, she placed the box on her bed, opening it as slowly as she could. Sifting through the messy collection of things, she pulled out the first object. The photo frame was an unfamiliar weight in her hands. The smooth, black frame was cool in her hands, the photo inside aroused no feelings in her. She was being piggybacked by her Father, a large grin on her face. Sure, she missed her Father, it had nearly been twelve months since the accident. But she had done her mourning.

It made her feel wrong, dirty even, that she was no longer upset.

Her Mother still cried herself to sleep some nights, and her uncles and aunts couldn’t look at them without tearing up. But Jackie didn’t feel sad one bit. And it felt horrible.

That something had to be wrong with her seemingly normal sixteen-year-old self.

No one asked her why she didn’t cry, they just shifted their gazes between Jackie and the piano that used to sit in the small house.

Jackie hadn’t touched a piano in four months. When she did, it never sounded right. She had tried everything from having a trained professional look at the piano. Still, there was nothing wrong with the piano. Then all other pianos and keyboards started to sound wrong. So she barely played, the sole instrument that her Father had taught her, talent gone to waste.

Clearly, this must have been her way of mourning