A house doesn’t die fast and easy, if it’s truly a home. It is a death watch and like waiting for cancer to eat away dishes and curtains and much used tools. Recipes written in her hand, house notes written in his. Every delivery of oil, how many gallons, the gallon price and how much. A stapled and taped in two places yardstick–from a furniture company that went out of business thirty years ago.
I feel like a thief–did when he wanted me to take stuff away. Should have then, but thought it’d be easier later, and it’s not.
Tough day at the old homestead. Watching a home die.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology
It doesn’t seem fair that we are asked to erase these things that once touched hands, or knew the scent of someone. The boxes and bags contain much more than contents.
Warm thoughts as you take the next step. One foot forward, then another. And take time to allow the memories plenty of space to breathe.
This reminds me of cleaning out my mom’s things after she passed. It was so difficult to throw things away, we grew exhausted after a short time. Some things we kept, and took months to realize we wouldn’t keep them, after all. The paring-down process is iterative and ours is in fact still going on, three years later.
I felt that way about my parent’s house after my Dad died, and about my grandparent’s house after my grandmother died and my Aunt was there alone. They were houses that had lost their lives. I was able to leave them both without tears because I knew they needed a new family. But now I’m wracked with dreams about them….
Thank you all, guess you’ve all been there and understand. We moved into that house when I was ten. My first ten years were spent in my grandmother’s house which is only down the hill from my dad’s. That house was in the family until last year. My sister’s buying my dad’s house, but it’ll never be the same. But I guess it’s time to pull my head out of the sand and move on. Thanks again; your shared thoughts are much appreciated.