The move is hard for both of us
in different ways
for different reasons.
I never lived here, so I feel no emotional connection with this house.
But my mother does.
This is the house she lived in when she retired, ending her working career.
It is the house she lived in when Daddy died
the house she lived in when Walter (her second husband) died
the house she lived in when Clyde (her cat) died.
She’s held many parties here
Sunday school class parties where her friends did the hula in the backyard,
annual high school class reunions
where friends gather to congratulate each other on being here another year,
family holiday dinners,
annual Kentucky Derby parties,
to name a few.
As I make lists, assign chores, and push to meet deadlines,
eager to get back to my own home, my own bed, my own life,
I remind myself to be patient and kind
because Mother lived her Second Life within these walls and under this roof.
She and this house have a bond.
I love the room within your heart, it is ceiling-less and infinite.
and it’s dusty
and the plaster is cracking like nobody’s business
and the lightbulbs are all burned out.
but you made me cry anyway, sugar.
xo
the photographs of your mother’s house are beautiful. The little details … the life that chandelier and potted fern must have witnessed, been part of.
I hope you have some ‘work’ with you for your very own private self. xx
Always a treat to hear from your storyteller’s keen eye and your maker’s knowing heart. . .