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Selling the House

Posted by Dr. D , 29 September 2012 · 315 views

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.

Biff Wellington
Sep 29 2012 02:00 PM
I don't believe that you suffer from lunacy. Sanity perhaps but not lunacy. I gaurantee that if I had experienced what you did then I too wear your shoes. In my opinion, you shouldn't give up that unless you really wanted to. On a side note, Iove San Fransisco. I was one of the many child that flock to hippie hill every year to live in Golden Gate Park, back in 05. I was only there for a few months but I fell in love with the calmness & the sense of community there. I hope to return one day.
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Biff Wellington
Sep 30 2012 01:25 AM
I am reading my comment now & thinking, "I really need to get a new netbook." I never had this many typos & grammerical (is that a word or did I make it up?) errors until I was forced to go mobile.
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Sep 30 2012 11:16 AM
you are a really good writer! enjoyed reading this!
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