A house, to which one expects to return but does not, becomes a relic.
I stepped out the door one day for what I anticipated would be a moment and did not return for weeks. The impetus for the absence is a fascinating, devastating, poignant and somewhat tragic story, which I will not tell.
Upon my return I looked at my home as though it belonged to a stranger. I live a solitary existence so the things I had left , as I had left them, were all that would have remained to speak for me. I wondered what the individuals elected (or hired) to wipe it all away would have thought.
So I decided to let the rooms have their say.
My house is a work in progress. Tragedy in reverse. It had fallen apart before I bought it.
I am falling it back together.