The Past

just ran over me today with its rough, heavy hooves. I spoke with a realtor. I'm selling my house.

In order to get to my house, turn off Highway Nine at the Bigfoot Discovery Museumand go up a steep hill, then turn left at the pink flowering dogwood. Follow the curve of the road as it narrows to the top. Just over the crest you have to drive slowly because there's an old black dog who sleeps in the road. The road is filled with potholes here. Then you descend another hill, at the bottom of which you make a hairpin turn. From here on out, the road is no longer paved.

From the dirt road you can see the red roof of my house, with its funny metal vent, the skylights, the chimney-pipe. My house is dwarfed by giant redwoods. I painted my house dark green, with red trim. The plants in the garden are now twice as tall as me and covered in flowers. Inside my house there's a dark blue woodstove to keep the place warm, a built-in desk, a stainless steel kitchen. Someone will buy this house, but will they realize its beauty?

A house is more than a house. For instance, there's a dog. She loves to play with the neighbor's dog. It's her house, too. This is a picture of a trail in the park down the street where I used to walk her. I don't know what will happen to her.

Nor do I know what will happen to the man who currently lives in the house. I've told him to get his hair cut. I used to cut his hair on the deck, which is half as big as the house. I've asked him to spend lots of time with his mother instead of staying alone in the house. I've told him to for god sakes treat himself with love, to allow himself to be sad, and to for once in his life ask for help when he needs it.

Over the last year I've tried very hard to let go of the past by actively distancing myself from the house and everything inside of it, animate and inanimate. Today, however, I allowed myself to remember some of the good things, and this was devastating. I hope that's okay. I hope it's okay to be filled with grief and concern. I hope the realtors understood why I was rude to them, and abrupt. There's no way to sell the house I loved in and lived in without trying, with all my might, to detach, and the only way for me to detach from love is to deny my feelings. Until they catch up with me and run me down.

Goodbye, house-in-the-mountains.