Selling the house

I used to write of times and things with words exploding upon the page. Crime and conspiracy, death and danger, suspense and secrets . . . . the paragraphs formed themselves and words became living beings. But that is gone now. The words have taken flight like frightened quail and thoughts no longer come to me with tidal force. I am no longer inspired by the mysteries of night or sunsets boasting their brash beauty. I am only inspired by you. The fist of fate has entered my chest and extracted every particle of pride and hope. I am not inspired by wind or moon, deep forests or raging seas, or the promises of God. I am only inspired by revisiting you.

I find you everywhere. You left parts of you in every path of your life like bread crumbs marking your escape. The realtor called, dear, and I waited until I went to San Francisco. I booked a layover and went to the house. He had a prospect. A new money couple with a chubby son who rummaged through our things without a scolding or rebuke. The thin, sharp-faced woman said she would change the purple asters in your flower box and sneered at the kitchen where you had hung pots and pans Italian style. The man wanted to bicker about the price; after all, the pump in the pool wouldn’t work after so long and God knows what else would need repair. She was fingering the clock you loved. It’s still perched on the mantle over the fireplace. “I don’t know,” she moaned. “I do,” I replied, “the house is not for sale. I’m sorry, but I’m taking it off the market.”

They left, eyes widened with offense and the realtor shrugging his confusion. I was again alone with you. I sat on the stairway and felt you settle beside me. We were at home.

The brush on the dresser still had two strands of your hair. The medicine cabinet was the chronicle of your last days. Your clothes sagged limply in the closet as if in mourning. A crayon drawing Wendy created in the second grade neatly folded in your drawer. Hints of you rested in every corner, in every crevice and joint.

From the bedroom window I could see the front lawn. We had stood there with incredible joy when the foundation was poured. We had watched the house grow like a plant pushing from the earth. We had entered and within it, you created a home. The mystique of you resides there still and it will not vacate or be evicted. The house is not for sale.

I still wear you like skin or scars. You rest upon me in each thought, sense and prayer. I start to realize; I dress in your favorite colors. The flowers you liked bloom in the patio. When showers of leaves announce autumn, I walk among them as you enjoyed. There is no conscious plot to my lunacy, it is only the essence of everything that was you. It soon becomes obvious; you are still the greater part of me. I am like our home where everything is as you left it. I am just as you left me.

Reviews

[David Scott]

Most readers will say something like, "how sad", or "the pain is so vivid". While that may be true, I say this, "what god granted this man such a love?". How few ever live a moment in the warm sunlight of a love this pure. Most if human kind would burst into flames like the undead that we are.
I cheer this hero who has fought in an arena that only the truest and best of us have earned the right to die in.
Your blood upon this sand is ommage to the goddess who won your heart.
Well penned story. More poetic than most poetry.

[DrD]

What can I say? The only truth I know is that some chapters in life can't be closed and it becomes impossible to imagine a new book.

[Claire Twinn]

So lonely and sad, yet beautiful too; coming to terms with loss hopefully leading to an appreciation of her influence and legacy.

[Marie]

How sad...a house takes on the shape of those who lived there...becomes those people...how can it be sold?

[DrD]

You've captured it all with that comment, Marie.

[Frieda P]

From the viewpoint of the house, how fantasical is that? It's quaint, lovely, sad, a bit odd, and haunting at the same time, like an old love affair. A most enjoyable read.

[DrD]

Thank you, Frieda, I appreciate your visit. But all the time you know the days is coming . . . .

[kimmy]

This was so powerful, wow the way you wrote this out. You can feel your loved one in every part of the house and everywhere you turn. It would be easier to sell or give thing away then to feel sad, but then when it comes down to parting with for say the house. You remember all the good times, maybe the sad as well and know in your heart that you cannot give away or sell something that is so dear.
This was just an amazing write and you could feel the power of love through the while thing. Very good job on this piece.

[DrD]

Thank you, Kimmy. It's a true story . . . . happened about four months ago.

[kimmy]

That is so sad, I couldn't imagine. When my mom died I didn't want to get rid of anything. I finally have recently, not much but something that were just really trash. I am sorry this has happened to someone

[DrD]

But you get to the point when you have to do something. I live in Mexico now but the taxes in California continue. We had another house in Santa Margherita Ligure, Italy that has been closed up now for five years. How long can that go on? One day I have to start dealing with reality.

[kimmy]

Yup I understand that, and I am sorry to hear that you have to do that. I think when the time comes for me to get rid of more, it is still going to be hard for me but it will be time. I don't know how you fell, but I do. I am glad that you write all this in your writing, it gets it off your chest and heart:)