Chapter 1. Houses In Motion
Itâs been almost a year since Aunt Val died. Though we were all promised that her house
would remain in the family, it has been sold, and there are many things to be picked up and
moved out.
My dad has asked me to help him pick up a china cabinet that is intended for my mother. I
wonder why he didnât have my younger, stronger brother help out, but I donât ask. Iâm always
happy when my dad wants to do things together.
We ride in comfortable silence. Iâm lost in thought, wondering what I could talk to my dad
about: baseball? the kids? my family? work? We end up talking about them all and the drive
passes very quickly.
As we drive down Aunt Valâs street, it hits me: this is it. I will never make this drive,
this drive that Iâve made since I was in a car seat, again. Iâve been asked to help my dad
move furniture, but Iâm really here to say goodbye to this house thatâs been part of my life
since I was a child.
A tremendous sadness consumes me as we back into the driveway.
I exchange polite hellos with Aunt Valâs daughter, who is responsible for the sale of the
house, and walk inside.
Itâs the first time Iâve been here since her death. The house feels cold and empty. The
furniture is gone, the walls are mostly bare, and Aunt Valâs warmth and love is
missing.
Certain things remain strangely untouched: her bookcase, filled to overflowing with
pictures of the family. Childrenâs artwork . . . some of it mine . . . still dominates the
side of the living room, the recliners where my great grandparents spent the last ten years of
their lives opposite. I remember sitting in my Papaâs chair while Aunt Val sat next to me,
watching Love Boat and Fantasy Island, thrilled that I was staying up past my bedtime,
watching shows intended for grownups, putting one over on my parents who would often drop my
siblings and me off for the weekend.
I loved those weekends. When we spent time with Aunt Val we were loved. We were the center
of the universe and though she was well into her 70s, she would play with us, walk with us to
the corner store to get snacks, let us stay up late. It was wonderful.
In the living room, the table where Aunt Val would put the artificial tree at Christmas is
gone, though its footprints still mark the carpet. In my mind, I put it back, fill the space
beneath it with gifts, warm the air with the laughter and love of the entire family gathered
around it, singing songs and sipping cider.
I blink and the room is empty again. The warm light of memory is replaced with the harsh
sunlight of the fading afternoon. Aunt Valâs dog Missy noses at my hand, asking to go
outside.
I lead her toward the patio doors. Aunt Valâs dining room table, where the adults would
sit at reunions and holiday meals, is still there, covered in paperwork and trash. Her
daughterâs ashtray overflows. Itâs a little obscene.
When I was little, Aunt Val would always sit at the card table â the kids table â with us,
and when I was 14 or so I was moved to the adultâs table. The next year I begged to be granted
a spot with her at the kids table again.
Missy is impatient. She urges me through the kitchen. I look at the cabinet where my great
grand-parents kept their Sugar Corn Pops cereal. Regardless of the time of day my brother and
sister and I would arrive at her house, we were always hungry for cereal.
Aunt Val was always happy to oblige.
This cabinet, which I couldnât even reach, which held much mystery and wonder, is now
empty, and at my eye level. I am sad that my own children will never get to look up at its
closed door and proclaim themselves starving with a hunger that can only be cured by a trip to
the Honeycomb hideout.
The kitchen counters are littered with dishes and glasses. Notes written in Aunt Valâs
Itâs been almost a year since Aunt Val died. Though we were all promised that her house
would remain in the family, it has been sold, and there are many things to be picked up and
moved out.
My dad has asked me to help him pick up a china cabinet that is intended for my mother. I
wonder why he didnât have my younger, stronger brother help out, but I donât ask. Iâm always
happy when my dad wants to do things together.
We ride in comfortable silence. Iâm lost in thought, wondering what I could talk to my dad
about: baseball? the kids? my family? work? We end up talking about them all and the drive
passes very quickly.
As we drive down Aunt Valâs street, it hits me: this is it. I will never make this drive,
this drive that Iâve made since I was in a car seat, again. Iâve been asked to help my dad
move furniture, but Iâm really here to say goodbye to this house thatâs been part of my life
since I was a child.
A tremendous sadness consumes me as we back into the driveway.
I exchange polite hellos with Aunt Valâs daughter, who is responsible for the sale of the
house, and walk inside.
Itâs the first time Iâve been here since her death. The house feels cold and empty. The
furniture is gone, the walls are mostly bare, and Aunt Valâs warmth and love is
missing.
Certain things remain strangely untouched: her bookcase, filled to overflowing with
pictures of the family. Childrenâs artwork . . . some of it mine . . . still dominates the
side of the living room, the recliners where my great grandparents spent the last ten years of
their lives opposite. I remember sitting in my Papaâs chair while Aunt Val sat next to me,
watching Love Boat and Fantasy Island, thrilled that I was staying up past my bedtime,
watching shows intended for grownups, putting one over on my parents who would often drop my
siblings and me off for the weekend.
I loved those weekends. When we spent time with Aunt Val we were loved. We were the center
of the universe and though she was well into her 70s, she would play with us, walk with us to
the corner store to get snacks, let us stay up late. It was wonderful.
In the living room, the table where Aunt Val would put the artificial tree at Christmas is
gone, though its footprints still mark the carpet. In my mind, I put it back, fill the space
beneath it with gifts, warm the air with the laughter and love of the entire family gathered
around it, singing songs and sipping cider.
I blink and the room is empty again. The warm light of memory is replaced with the harsh
sunlight of the fading afternoon. Aunt Valâs dog Missy noses at my hand, asking to go
outside.
I lead her toward the patio doors. Aunt Valâs dining room table, where the adults would
sit at reunions and holiday meals, is still there, covered in paperwork and trash. Her
daughterâs ashtray overflows. Itâs a little obscene.
When I was little, Aunt Val would always sit at the card table â the kids table â with us,
and when I was 14 or so I was moved to the adultâs table. The next year I begged to be granted
a spot with her at the kids table again.
Missy is impatient. She urges me through the kitchen. I look at the cabinet where my great
grand-parents kept their Sugar Corn Pops cereal. Regardless of the time of day my brother and
sister and I would arrive at her house, we were always hungry for cereal.
Aunt Val was always happy to oblige.
This cabinet, which I couldnât even reach, which held much mystery and wonder, is now
empty, and at my eye level. I am sad that my own children will never get to look up at its
closed door and proclaim themselves starving with a hunger that can only be cured by a trip to
the Honeycomb hideout.
The kitchen counters are littered with dishes and glasses. Notes written in Aunt Valâs
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