My Mother and I walk through the empty farmhouse. It has been several years since my Grandmother died, and my Mother and her sisters are selling their family farm. The farmhouse is silent, somber, stripped of its furnishings. Everything has been sold at auction or adopted by family members. Our steps echo on the wood floors, sounding loud and intrusive.This place appears both familiar and foreign. The wood burning cook stove in the kitchen is cold to my touch, the woodbox is empty. There is no smell of fresh bread in the pantry, and the table and chairs in the dining room where meals were shared and games played are long gone.
Straying away from my mother, I wander the house alone. I quietly walk through the empty rooms, recalling the sounds of laughter and the sting of tears. For decades this house has held our family through births and deaths, good and bad times. When I stand in the center of my grandparents’ bedroom, I finally accept the absence of the presence I am seeking. She is not here, my Grandmother, she is gone. The house is empty of something more precious than things.
It was my Grandmother whose heartbeat gave life to this old farmhouse. And now, this building means little to me without her here to wrap her strong arms around me and whisper that she loves me. Both the air in the closed house and my grief have become oppressive. Nothing is stirring here but my memories. I say goodbye to all the rooms, and wish them well as I leave, knowing I’ll never return. Outside, the warmth of the summer’s breeze comforts me like my Grandmother’s embrace. “Oh,” I breathe, “here you are.”
~Lisa Kiel