The Owner is Leaving this House (after the poem)

The Owner is Leaving this House

The owner is leaving this house

the slow way, giving it time

to get used to her absence.

She moves a painting, a table,

(a small one), not so much

that the house would notice-

though the guest feels a draft

and notices a window uncovered.

A coffee pot's missing, the top

left library bookshelf is empty.

The bright rooms aren't dimmed,

really, but dusted, as the pollen outside

slightly powders late April-

drifts over wisteria

on its way out.

This house must be suspicious

at least of a season changing,

Of something going on .

Elizabeth Seydel Morgan

               That was the second truck load from the third trip back to Georgia. Four or five months later, and we're still only halfway there. We've had a good long time to get used to the idea of moving. We call it downsizing, consolidating, living our dream. But we measure it plate by plate, glass by glass, book by book, box by heavy box.

In addition to packing our things, we've been organizing, folding and cushioning the memories of our years there. We designed and built the house to suit the life we had constructed in the country.  

It was the best of the old and new; an homage to what was practical and graceful about turn of the century farm house style with an eye towards modern ease and simplicity.  

It was bringing the outside in to view by bringing an old beveled glass door or two back to life. 

It was crowning the classic triangular dormer with the seldom sold colored glass window of that same vintage. We picked each piece of molding, each door knob, door, light fixture, window, cabinet, counter top, tub, tile with intent to treasure the past while looking forward to the benefits of the present.       The treasure was the thing, and the process of finding the thing, and fitting the thing into our lives.

 

Now with a final glance down the hall or twist of a knob, we will move on to another's homemade home. We'll make a few modifications there. We'll figure a way to make it fit. The furniture, that is. 

But she's right. "...Something is going on". Of all the things we've decided to build or dismantle, it is beginning not to matter so much. Our age- our aged focus- has changed. We can give and take on the filtered furniture. Fewer pieces mean more grand baby toys. Fewer collected electric fans mean less shelf dusting. Managed space now belongs to small shared sentimental items, large baby paraphernalia and family themes.

I am pretty sure by now our house is more than suspicious. But we are hoping that the new owners will be reassuringly gentle when it comes to doorknobs and molding. Maybe they could also be obsessively detailed about the plant material enveloping the acres, or fall in love with the rock formations in the pine woods. Figure a way to make it fit. If they need it, I could tell them such stories.