by the Night Writer

We looked at a potential rental property last night that had just been listed. A realtor’s note said the seller hadn’t lived in the house since 1965 – a surviving generation’s duty now being discharged.

There were still a lot of belongings in the home, but in boxes, stacked in bedrooms, awaiting the estate sale, or for the children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren to examine and claim.

Who knows how long since little children had lived there, but there were brightly colored tiles in the playroom and a stone castle wall in the backyard to attest that little ones had been a treasured part of the home. Gardens in the front and back yards featured blooming perennials, now all but choked by the grass and weeds that have only been waiting their chance for all these years.

The appliances were early 70’s museum pieces, and a beautiful spice rack – featuring some old-time spice packages – was still on one wall. I’ve walked through a few rooms like this in my life, seen the inanimate objects that now seemed even more inanimate somehow.

I can imagine the smiles when that piece of art was hung; the work clothes on the hook, sweaty from the garden; almost see the faces crowded into the breakfast booth. There are ghosts here, and not scary at all.

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