The house is empty now. The daffodils have been uprooted. Dark green paint peels off of the shutters that hang crooked on their hinges. The house was never beautiful; it was always in desperate need of repair, and now it’s even uglier than before. But it holds so many memories for me. I stand in a graveyard across from the house on the other side of the road. It is the graveyard she lived across from for most of her adult life, and now is buried in, with a headstone of her own. I used to play on people’s headstones when I was little, looking at half lichen-covered pictures and trying to slowly read vanishing words.
The house looks tired and worn out. But I remember when I couldn’t wait to visit it. When it held expectation, mystery, laughter, and even beauty. It wasn’t that long ago. I remember . . .