This Old House

Slowly saying farewell to an old house, one dust bunny at a time. Bring out the dust rag. No amount of cleaning will be able to dust away the memories - lifetimes lived, plans made and put away. The cracks in the wood floor provide more than just splinters. The wind whistling through the window asks you to remember the voices that laughed and schemed here. The foot falls of past parties, late night pacings, meals shared linger here - under the shellac of years and bitterness. 

A home for so long, and then a gradual decline. There are years of memories that are a complete mystery. Tenants having dinners of their own, laughter foreign to your ears. A house, but not really a home any more. Hanging onto memories in dusty shelves when your mind continues to paint colorful pictures of times gone by. That chair that wasn't really that comfortable, the undersalted quiche, the cheap box wine that didn't seem to matter. The uncomfortable conversations, the feeling of being not quite welcome. These don't go away. They are your memories. Other people have theirs. But responsibilities don't necessarily favor those with the best memories. And here you are. Conflicted. At the end of the day, you know you've done your duty, right? Sign on the dotted line, clip a rose or two and say goodbye. Fresh life needs to breathe here. Best get out of the way.