Here’s what I know to be true: when one has buried their child there is never again any loss that is consuming. The knowledge that loss is survivable reigns and lends a certain amount of perspective. That said, I really tried not to let you go. You are a house with more history than I. An old place that I cleaned and cared for and painted. A  lawn I mowed, a garden I grew. For a long time this year you were tangible hope because I left you and everything in you in the dead of night and you were still there.  I was almost shot trying to bring my children back to you. I left and you were abandoned and you stood as a wooden monument in the valley that some things lasted longer than circumstance. As long as you nestled there, I felt hope that I’d get you back, that I’d get some part of myself back. Maybe I’d still have a chance to live where I could breathe the best and savor the seasons and have my own home. And then it was granted and you became tangible redemption. What had been locked was now open. I rocked on the porch and breathed prayers of gratitude for the soft wood beneath my feet and the smell of my flowers blooming. Returned To Me, you were. But it was only partial.

The thing is with brutes like him, the kind that pushes their wives down the stairs and follows her around with a stick of firewood in his hands; the kind that turns the yard into a graveyard of animals except for the one he left out to rot and the kind that Prays After Beating also knows how to push in the passive sense. He decided no one would get you and so it will be. Twelve months later I’m broken from trying and can’t keep it on and so he will have his way one more time. You will sit amid long grasses. Your windows will stay cold and ghosts will grow. Someday maybe an auction will be had and your history will continue, because you will last longer than this circumstance.

I hope it will be a family that will love you. Maybe they will finish the project I left undone. Maybe they will have a Christmas tree and hang a porch swing. Old Alice could come by and tell tales of her childhood there. And maybe someday I’ll have another house again as well. My things are still floating; they will leave you and find new temporary places, like me. My mother says, “this came to pass not to stay”. I want something to stay. It would be nice to have something as permanent as you, Old Blue House; some nest in the valley with home lights.

I have held you loosely and now will let you go. Soon the tears won’t come quite so quick and I’ll move on; that’s the way of life. Thank you for your gracious hospitality.