A House of Ghosts

Confident my sister was recuperating well from her surgery, and with a few hours left of sunlight, my husband and I drove to the house I grew up in; empty since my mother passed away. And once the decision was made my throat tightened and I fought off emotions that would eventually overwhelm me. My last visit was a few years ago, while my mother battled cancer. The house, nearly forty five years old then, was in dire need of repair. The thing about going back home is, well as the saying goes, "you can't."

Pulling into the driveway I was struck by the jungle of weeds and overgrown hedges that once neatly lined the front stone fence. There was a patchwork of early spring blooms of daffodils and tulips poking out of barren dirt. The front door, once a bright shiny orange, now looked ill and forlorn with a faded reddish cast. I stood, staring, trying to take in the shape and size of the house that once loomed large and bright, but now looked rather sad and small. Walking along the narrow cement path I stopped to take in my father's vegetable garden. Growing up I could watch from my bedroom window as he lovingly tended his plants.  My mother was intent on preserving this legacy after he was gone, and to my surprise parsley was growing among the tangle of dried leaves. I could barely make out the rest, tears streaming down my face, futile to wipe away. I pressed my face against shadeless windows, shocked at the disarray of old card tables, with discarded remnants of a life once lived. The trees out back were blanketed, thick with ivy and I tried to remember where our cat was buried in the yard. My father's compost pile was still piled high, rich and black. I stroked the birdhouse hanging on a light post once filled with seed. It swung, empty; it was time to go. This was now a house of ghostly memories, a home no more.