The house glares down like an angry statue.
Honestly, PopPop was smart not to leave Dad a trust or anything. He already gave him enough. Hetried.
If that makes me the disloyal daughter, oh well. But Leonidas Blackthorn knew where to invest his money. That’s why he got stinking rich and built a real estate empire up and down the Atlantic coast.
Dad wasn’t a good investment—just an emotional one. I wonder what that makes me.
Why am I here, really?
Why did it take so long?
I can’t believe it’s been years since we last sat across from each other by a roaring fire, always some oversized book clutched in his bony hands. I was only twenty, smack in the middle of my art program.
The same warm house.
The same stories that transcended truth and fiction from his travels.
Same jokes. Same gentle encouragement and grand lessons about life.
Same Gramps, but now he’s gone forever.
My stomach twists.
Grief is weird like that, the way it comes in waves.
One minute, you’re fine and a little misty-eyed about the past. The next, the bear trap slams shut on your heart and you’re doubled over with pain, the depressing finality.
I’m almost glad there wasn’t a funeral.
PopPop didn’t allow it. He knew all of us being there mourning would hurt too much.
But the pain burns my lungs, so acute I have to breathe through clenched teeth.
Ice-cold air runs through me like loss reaching its grubby fingers down my throat, stealing a piece of me.
You have to get used to it, though.
You have to press on with the vicious cycle called life.
My feet feel numb on the pavement. Even the sky scowls down, grey and indifferent.
I pull out my phone and snap a picture.
No matter how crappy I feel right now, maybe later I’ll put this on canvas to decompress. Oils, maybe.
Something messy, tactile, moody.
I’ll call itGone. Or something more pretentious likeDrifting Cloudsjust to keep people guessing.
Ahead, the house looms closer with every step, a sleeping giant just waiting to swallow me.
PopPop never did like modern. It’s a hulking colonial-style house with a veranda that wraps around the side and its extensive gardens, just dripping New England old money. By the looks of the green stems pushing through the dirt behind the skeletal brush, someone kept up the landscaping after his death.
I used to play hide and seek out here. There were wind chimes hanging over the porch, and some days I’d hunker down and hide, just listening to their clanging secrets.
The chimes are long gone now.
All the outdoor furniture has disappeared. Old wicker chairs I used to spend hours slowly picking apart—and every time I came back, they’d be repaired again.
