You are currently browsing the daily archive for January 4, 2022.

I don’t even know what to call the space anymore. I say “the house”, but there is no house. I say “the lot”, but that feels insensitive to the history and memories that the space and structures were infused with. I say “the property” and feel like a damned callous developer. So I suppose “the ruins” infers all the heartbreak and timeless sense of time’s passage that I’m trying to make sense of.

The girls and I spent the day scraping and sorting and sifting, searching for anything. There is nearly nothing intact. A few bowls – vintage Fiestaware can withstand seemingly anything. A lamp from K’s bedside, remarkably still white with its pink china roses unchipped—one of a pair from my grandmother’s house. A porcelain napkin ring. The dish in which I used to make my amazing artichoke dip, lid and all. Some stone art from the yard.

It was a house of books, as K and I have books in our blood. That is never more evident than now. We can tell where a bookcase was by knee-deep stacks of ashes, pure white. I can still see the pages but all the words are gone. Of course, I try to touch them, as it looks like someone was just rifling through them, and of course, they silently shatter, blowing away in the chill wind that precedes the snowfall predicted for tonight. There’s something I need to learn from these remnants, from this deceptive fragility, but I can’t tell what it is yet.

A and I sit together and gather Roscoe’s bones. So many fragments. She looks for teeth, but so far none have shown themselves. I mistake tatters of insulation for fur and am glad that I am wrong.

K and I are fixated on finding Dusty. He was so small and so good at hiding that I doubt we will ever find even a trace. Still, I call for him, because I have to believe in miracles, be it his live, lithe cat body bounding up from the creek, a little pile of bones, or just some sign from the universe. I used to walk through this house calling for my coffee when I’d misplace it in the morning, a silly thing, but then the coffee always did seem to show up.

When two men show up, taking pictures, I challenge them. Do you belong here in this place, on this space that right now is sacred to me? If you have no business here, get out. They are just looking for the gas meter. They might have asked me.

Walking into the ruins through what was the big picture window, through what was the first garden I planted here, I stop and turn in a slow circle. What was a neighborhood now looks like what I’d imagine a war zone to look like. Trees are sharp, angular, angry at their damage. Will anything bud when spring comes? Will a fragment of lilac still have the strength to push through the worn earth and present a sign of hope?

I just don’t know.

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