The Last Time

I ride with my sister to your house on a day in late September. It isn’t the house from my childhood, but I’m still sad to say goodbye. It still smells like you, still feels like you even though you’re gone. The pictures that once hung in the old house—family wedding photos and senior portraits, are all on the wall. New photos of new family members—spouses and great-grandchildren—cover every table, every bookcase, every surface.

The old house, the house from my childhood, is still what I think of when I think of your home. Nestled among farmland and winding roads, it had a steep hill for a backyard and a small stream on the edge of the property. I remember how in the summer we would walk with Grandma across the street, plastic bags full of corn husks. The cows would slowly amble toward us and we would feed them, their noses wet.

Once, my cousins and I caught a milk snake, its rusty brown and grey pattern twisting and curling as we picked it up. We wanted to keep it as a pet. You told us to set it free. 

I remember a cool November day when the trees were bare. There was the sound of a gunshot in the backyard when my cousins and I were outside. We quickly ran down the hill, our hearts racing. I remember the basketball games in your driveway and the softball game we played in the cow field. 

The parties and sleepovers and holidays blur together but my memories are firmly rooted in your old house among the hills.

But your new house is the only home of yours that my children know. They know the drive into the valley and the abandoned house nearby, the soft white carpet and your brown recliner. When my sister and I arrive at your home there is a stranger sitting there. He is a friend of my uncle’s. The sky alternates between rain and sun and soon the recliner is gone.

My sister and I sort and pack boxes once my aunts and mom tell us what to do with each item. We pack vases and glassware, pots and pans, knickknacks that Grandma bought on clearance. My daughter wants angels so we set some aside for her. My son gets a white cow that is also a watering can and some Christmas decorations that I think he will like.

“When it comes down to it, it seems like most of what we have is junk,” I say as we sort through your things. My mom and aunts laugh. 

Your home empties, piece by piece—a lifetime diminished to donation boxes and piles separated by family members. We work until evening and my husband and children join us as the sky darkens. We find an unopened pack of chapstick and my son picks cherry, my daughter wintergreen, and I get strawberry. My dad brings pizza and we eat on paper towels and plates because your dishes are gone. I take a picture of your Miami Dolphins jacket hanging alone in the closet.

My children play outside, running and tumbling in the grass, the lawn at the retirement community a far cry from the old house in the hills. We leave with the lights on, my mom and aunts still sorting through the last of your things. There are boxes in the car and soon they will be unpacked and washed, sorted into drawers, and tucked away. We leave your house for the last time and the moon is barely a sliver in the sky.