Brian Hamilton

Abandoned

Written 14 July, 2002 between 6:30 and 7:30am in the Pittsburg airport. I was halfway home, Seattle behind me, Harrisonburg ahead. A little bird whom I named Robbie kept me company.

The overgrown grass tickled my legs as I got out of the car. The sound of the car door closing slammed against every shred of pure truth contained in the place. The broken hinges, busted-out windows, even the light dusting of dirt on the battered wooden floor was obnoxiously honest. I was entranced.

The house had to be at least 100 years old. Or 75. Or 50. But the age didn’t matter—it was deserted and silent. It soaked up time like a sponge.

With a little bit of force, I cracked open the door just enough to squeeze through. The girl tip-toed in behind me. She felt it too: the pious reverence the place demanded. We were alone.

The floor was littered in old newspapers and notes. They held a story all their own. The notes were scrawled in the beatiful calligraphy of a seventh grader; there were hundreds, thousands of them. The wind, humming through the broken windows, blew the notes around, only to reveal more layers of crumpled paper. The flapping of the curtains (or what was left of them) only added to the serenity of the scene. It was an old movie, playing in 3D.

So we sat. We leafed through papers, ventured up the stairs (more of the same), back down to the kitchen. A shattered pickle jar on the floor housed the ghost of a mother preparing dinner for her husband and adolescent madman over the kicked-and-dented stove (only then, probably not so kicked-and-dented).

We never said much. A few whispered warning of holes in the floor, quiet explanations of notes as we passed them between ourselves, and a few (quite a few) awe-filled murmurs, but that was it. Neither one of us wanted to break the delicate balance of past and present.

We started heading back to the car, the grass once again tickling our feet and senses. We left as much as was possible untouched; even the grass we stepped on, we straightened. Before leaving, we stopped to take one final glance at paradise. The roof shined where the shingles were missing, the peeling paint was the house’s very splendor. “New and Improved” doesn’t carry quite so much weight anymore.

We closed the car doors much more quietly this time.

23 June 2003 |
tags: Personal