41
My Grandma Ruby and Grandpa Bill lived in a tiny home buried away in the Minnesota woods for years.
With fading blue paneling and a black roof, and all sorts of leaves stashed away in the gutters, it is sheltered year after year beneath an assortment of towering maple trees.
It has a narrow wooden porch and a walkway built into the side of the home which extends out into the shortest driveway you’ve ever seen.
A canopy Grandpa Bill built covers the parking spot from the downpouring rain and heavy snow throughout winter, but does nothing to protect from the below zero temperatures.
Not that either of them minded much about that.
When I pull into the driveway, there are piles of dirt and scattered debris in the corners.
Leaves, nests, rodents and more.
Years of neighborhood matter collected and settled.
I close the car door behind me.
I get my bag and head up the walkway to the front door.
Every third or so step is unsteady as some of the wood boards have become rotten and soft.
All around is silent and anticipatory.
There are a couple squirrels battling it out on a branch overhead.
One black, one brown, chirping at one another, scrapping, what a life.
I get the key out of my pocket and push the metal into the crusted lock, the same after all this time.
It feels miraculous as it turns over.
In a sense, it’s just as I remembered.
I open the blinds to let the sunlight break through and illuminate the particles in the air.
The furniture has remained steadfast and willing, the dining table is stable and nearly ashen with dust and the kitchen is planted where it always has been.
It’s all one connected interior, the kitchen is one with the dining room and the dining room is one with the living room.
A small space.
Standing in the entrance, I drop my bag down to the floor.
The kitchen is to my right, scattered and lifeless.
Long gone are the days where Grandma Ruby shuffled along and cooked cinnamon rolls that would melt the hardest of hearts.
I can almost see her silhouette there behind the counter, bouncing and humming to herself.
Some drawers are cracked open and are likely housing mice.
I spot their droppings strewn around the counters and feel nauseous, but this was what I expected.
I guess someone deserved a run of the place while all the people moved on.
Grandpa Bill’s rocking chair and Grandma’s pale burgundy couch are off to the left, lining the living room walls.
The 1950s television sits also in ash, most likely dead, and I walk forward a few steps to stare down the darkened hallway which leads to the bedroom back there.
The walls are hung with photographs—pictures of me, my mom, and my dad—and that same eerie feeling I got as a kid creeps along the back of my neck.
What waited for me down that endless hallway of black? And out of the corner of my eye, I am already seeing ghosts.
There Grandma is again, aproned and smiling, dark graying curly hair all frizzled and precious as she spins and she dances and delivers good news.
Grandpa, meanwhile, in his rocking chair, a loose skinned, strong war vet, smiling and thankful for a heartbeat and a chance at any day at all, sings a tune by Johnny Cash.
I rub at my eyes and handle it all, best I can.
The dust is thick and tastes of neglect.
The once white carpet needs a wash, and mice scramble around, peeping through cracks, thinking who the fuck is this ? Well, their guess is as good as mine.
They’ve probably had one hell of a circus of things in my absence.
I can only imagine the free living and seance, but playtime is over.
This place has stood firm after all these years, never giving up hope for resurrection, and it’s time I fulfilled the prophecy.
I reach for a cigarette as the spirit of the place gives me chills.
Years of memory, ricochet in my body.
I head out to the yard, where the leaves continue to fall.
I light my cigarette and kneel down.
One leaf in my hand, I spin it by the stem.
What a day in Minnesota.
Here I am.