There sits a strangeness in this house. The walls which watched my family grow and change. The structure which has now been abandoned.
Random furniture is strewn awkwardly in the spaces which once felt cozy and lived in. Un-hung pictures and ornaments leave the walls bare. Only the scars of life remain there and on the hardwood.
And yet the shedding of things makes the place look young again: opportunistic and open to all possibilities. The decluttering of all those items meant to reflect personality expose their age and seem odd as they are removed from the context of "home."
The exposure of space acts as motivation to clean and pack faster.
No time for trips down memory lane, I tell myself, as the space becomes less familiar.
But in the guest room I do sit. I look through memories which are not mine. The pile of my late Grandmother's belongings. I could sit forever just looking at old photos which capture smiles and life benchmarks.
Amongst sent Christmas cards from grandchildren and great-grandchildren are images taken over or nearly a century past. Along with these are post cards from my uncles and father, pictures of my father and his siblings as infants and young adults.
I giggle over the testimony of Grandma's personality: a mix of cleaning
tips, skeptic articles over surgery procedures, and a memory quiz. There are newspaper clippings of family achievements and eulogies accompanied with funeral pamphlets marking the passings of her siblings whom she now rests with.
And then these memories are packed back up and I move through the house once more. I realize the house has been vacant long enough for the pipes to gurgle as browned water spits onto my dusty hands.
As I pass through the front room with large glass windows, I look across the slightly overgrown lawn, beyond to the farmer's land, and beyond again to the trees swaying above the Pacific Ocean backdrop.
