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Love and longing roll over me with the first step. Everything looks exactly the same. I don't know why, but I'd thought it might look different. Cleaned out, maybe.
But it's the same. Nana Jo is still firmly stamped in every piece of this room, right down to the mismatched hooks on the wall to my left. Her favorite quilted jacket is still hanging on the first hook, the magenta bright against the cream colored walls.
Grief swells up inside of me, a tidal wave of emotion. It's not the unending sadness I thought it might be. Threads of love and gratitude braid around the grief. All blanketed by a sense of home. The one place that I always felt accepted.
Magnolia Lane was a safe haven for me once. And I have a feeling it just might be that again.
Determination floods my system as I make my way through the back hall into the kitchen area. It runs almost the length of the house along the back, bleeding right into a casual eating area. The formal dining room shares a wall with the back hall, separated from the kitchen by a set of six-paned glass French doors.
In all the summers I spent here, we never once ate in the formal dining room. She preferred to spend time in the kitchen, eating her breakfast at the round blonde oak table or snacking at the island or drinking her coffee on the back patio.
She always said a house should be more than wood and paint. It should be ahome, a reflection of the people who live in it. And she lived most of her life in this house, got married and raised her children here.
But as I look around, it's notjustNana Jo's life reflecting from every shelf and inside every cabinet.
Grandpa Dalton is here. His old banjo on the built-in bookshelf in the living room. I can almost hear the twang of the strings and the deep rumble of his voice as he'd sing a made-up song. His record player and vinyl collection that we still added to after he was gone.
A bouquet of dried peonies from Aunt Hazel's garden.
And me.
So many pieces of me.
Framed photos of me with Nana Jo and my cousins. An old wooden orange box full of our flea market finds. A hand-painted tea set for two, a vintage music box that never quite worked right, kitschy salt and pepper shakers, a set of quirky needlepoints.
We spent countless hours perusing flea markets and yard sales, always hunting for the perfect thing to bring home. Sometimes we turned it into a game. Who could find the most random thing or who could get the best thing for under ten dollars.
I take a deep breath, spinning in a slow circle around the living room. The memories soothe the ache in my chest. I know I'll always miss her, but this house is still filled with her love, even now. And I know even after I add my own touches to it, that will never change.
* * *
I'mon hour three of cleaning out the living room, sweat dampening the back of my neck and my back starting to ache from the constant up and down. But the first thing I did was go through Grandpa Dalton's vinyl collection and make sure the record player works.
It's hot as hell in here. I thought about turning on the air conditioning, but it really needs some fresh air in here.
Suspicion wrinkles my brow every time I think about how relatively clean it still is inside. It's not like I expected it to be reclaimed by nature or something, but I didn't think it'd be so . . . normal. Sure, it's a little dusty and the air is weird and stale, but overall, it looks like it's been empty for a month, not a year. I keep expecting to come across some mail or paperwork clueing me in to who's been looking after the inside of the house. But so far, it's been mostly old birthday cards and a handful of magazines.
I've separated everything into piles. Things I'm going to keep over by the velvet chaise, everything I think someone in the family might want by the bookcase, and then everything else in one big area in the middle of the room. All of those things are open for anyone to take, otherwise, I'll donate them.
Or maybe I'll have a yard sale of my own. It could be a sort of tribute to Nana Jo, considering we must've gone to hundreds of them over the years. A small smile tugs up the side of my mouth at the idea. I kind of like the notion that a girl and her grandma might stop bymyyard sale and find treasure of their own.
My phone vibrates on the coffee table next to me, pulling me from my yard sale day dreams.
Unknown Number: How do you feel about seafood?
I blame the heavy emotions of the day for the slow speed it takes to connect the dots. But when I finally do, I can't resist the urge to tease him, just a little bit.
I sink my teeth into my bottom lip and absently swipe away the perspiration on the back of my neck. I snag my iced latte from the table and settle into the couch. I drink the last dredges of my coffee for flirtatious courage.
Me: Who is this?
His reply is instant, like he'd been watching his phone.
Unknown Number: your man
Me: Charlie?
Unknown Number: who the fuck is Charlie
