Sometimes, a house can be a living thing. Our house in
Stoneham, Massachusetts was like that. It had been in our family for four
generations, and when we finally emptied it out, it was like a funeral.
Our footsteps echoed off the hardwood floors when we walked
through it for the last time, reminding us that empty spaces can sometimes
speak the loudest. The walls, naked and barren, still framed the places where
family portraits had rested: a collection of empty wreaths to mark the sad
occasion.
“Closing Up the House”(In the Cat’s Eye, 2009) tells
its story.
Glenn K. Currie
Closing Up the House
The walls were
wrinkled,
Filled with laugh
lines
And the stains of
tears.
Cracks leaked plaster
From a body worn.
It smelled of all of
us,
A scent of life
lived.
Children and
Christmas trees,
Old magazines and
dirty laundry,
Death and sex and
dried flowers.
She sat on a pull-out
bed,
Surrounded by the
litter of years,
Age breaking the
bargain
That keeps a house a
home.
A caretaker ready to
be a care taker.
The dust of living
Scurried across
well-traveled floors,
Unnerved by strangers’
sudden movements.
Gathering in remote
corners
As darkness settled
in.
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