What no one ever tells a disappointed man (or woman) is that, after a long life of opinions and hard work, life amounts to little more than a real estate listing. Grown children will grow estranged from the meaningless place they occupied in your life. People who were supposed to love you will die or grow tired of you. Careless relatives will hardly be bothered to clean up your mess. In the listing for your house, your privacy will be ignored along with whatever is left of your dignity. If you’re lucky someone who never knew you will see you in that last moment and attempt to eulogize your humanity before you disappear altogether into a sea of forgotten lives.
He was a working man beloved enough to render in portraiture. He once had a wife n’ kids, curtains n’ pretty things…Ain’t no denying it, he was handy. A camping photo tells of good fishing n’ better times. She loved tiny birds and plants.There were books n’ fish in his nautical lighthouse library, seagull dreams by the sea along Grand Manan.She picked a lovely wallpaper to set the mood for these books. A sea glass n’ silver collection was a point of pride.He never could keep her sewing table clear. Lipton tea figurines, pearlescent tea cups over her purple Afghan.A jar of old photographs on the floor, portraits of children. The mugs celebrated anniversaries and birthdays.Two hearts beat as one on the fridge. For better or for worse, she loved you and you loved her too.She didn’t think “Little Sambo” was racist, she just thought it was sweet. The old sock remains a mystery.Did you work on engines in the living room? Did you store garbage here? Let the roof leak? How did it get this bad?Everything reminded them of each other. Diplomas were plucked from the wall with graduation pictures left behind.The suitcase by the door was packed but never necessary. You never left this house.With homes like this, who needs a cemetery?
