Title: The inevitabilty of real estate and broken hearts
Rating & Warnings: G
Summary: Learning about the sale of my grandparents' house.
Note: Prompt: This is not my grandmother's sofa.
This is not my grandmother’s sofa. Hers was made of a scratchy tapestry with gaudy flowers adorning the material, and it hurt your back if you sat down for too long. I used to think that was intentional. She abhorred laziness, and was always scurrying around dusting things, vacuuming; shining any surface you could see your reflection in. Does anyone even dust anymore?
Well, my mother certainly doesn’t.
I suppose the comfort these overstuffed cushions provide doesn’t encourage the futility of dusting, or the dance of cleanliness my grandmother partook in. Music doesn’t play inside these walls anymore either. I notice the silence of it echoing around me as I sink into the couch’s soft, brown exterior.
The words “we’re selling the house” feel like bee stings on bare skin. I stare at ahead at the blank wall where a sea captain once hung. I stare at nothing now.
She tells me this on the anniversary of my husband’s death.
She forgets the dates of things.
She forgets about things like significance.
She forgets that my grandmother’s house was the only place I ever felt safe.
Well, that last one she probably never knew.
“You knew this day would come,” my mother says through the left side of her lips. It looks like she’s holding back a smile.
But I could be wrong in that. That could just be a soured reaction to these reddening welts on my arms.
I swallow hard and stand up slowly.
This is not my grandmother’s house anymore.
cross-posted on PULPED_FICTIONS
she sends her regards
musings, ink stains & siren songs
- The inevitabilty of real estate and broken hearts