Miles
April 7th, 2009
Tuesday
I took a walk on the beach this morning, with my bare feet and part of my pants wet from the sea.The sun was shining.The sound of the waves and the smell of the tide felt like renewal.
Now, I walk from the CIC to Miss Amara’s house with a folder tucked under my arm.Inside it there are printed inventory sheets, many blank labels, and a pen clipped to the front cover.The afternoon sun follows me along the quiet street, warming my back and casting long shadows on the pavement.I can’t remember the last time I took this route, it feels both like it was forever ago and as if it was just yesterday.
The key turns in the lock, and there’s a sound I don’t think could have made itself: the sound of a piano key.
I lean forward to peek into the living room, and there she is, Ella, sitting on the piano bench, one hand resting on her leg, covered by a long white skirt, the other hand lightly touching the piano keys without pressing down.Her nails are painted blue.
She notices me a few seconds later, and I realize I’ve interrupted her moment of reflection.
“I’m sorry,” I say with care.
“It’s okay,” she answers gently, and we fall into a quiet moment.“She still kept one key hidden in the same spot as always,” Ella explains herself.
“On the porch, under the small blue vase you gifted her,” I confirm.I remember Miss Amara loved the small blue vase Ella had gifted her.
She nods.
“I volunteered to help with the house inventory,” I add, now I’m explaining myself.
The other day, I stayed longer in Mr.Mandela’s office because I wanted to ask how I could be helpful.He explained the next procedures and told me to talk to someone at the CIC.So I did.And here I am.
“I’ll assess the items in the house and make an inventory to help the CIC decide what can be used, what should be sold or donated elsewhere, and what needs to be discarded,” I say.
“I can help you with that,” Ella offers, straightening up on the bench, some light returning to her.
Miss Amara was never one to hold on to many material things.She enjoyed cleaning, discarding, and donating anything she hadn’t used in a set period of time.Yet, some things remained, the ones that had not lost their purpose in her life over time.And those are placed exactly where they have always been.
We aren’t looking at a cluttered house or a messy space.We are looking at a well-organized home, personalized and deeply familiar to the both of us.
“Let’s start in the living room?”Ella asks, standing up from the piano bench, ready to start reliving the rooms of this house.
We move through the living room.I peel the first blank label and write “#001” on it.
I place the sticker softly on the side panel of the low wooden console table beneath the oval wall mirror.
“You write in the inventory while I place the stickers?”I suggest, and Ella offers me a smile.
She nods.“Divide and conquer.Let’s go.”
And so we start.
One item down.
A houseful to go.
A while later, we’re both becoming expert professionals at the job.
The living room is almost entirely reflected in the inventory sheets, and the staff at the CIC will be able to walk into Miss Amara’s house feeling informed and organized about the furnished interior that has been donated to the Center.
I follow Ella as she heads toward the antique wooden bookshelf in the corner of the room.She pulls open a lower drawer and grazes her fingers on the surface of an old, worn box tucked in there.She hesitates for a second, then gently lifts it out, setting it on the small coffee table in front of the olive-green couch.
“This one’s been here forever,” she says softly, almost to herself.
