Thirty Feet of Life's History

We rolled up to my house in New Paltz, New York, and my dad sped off, straight-away to get the tacos we'd just ordered.  I went inside.  The tenants had left four months back.  The house was cooler than the porch, but my body adjusted and soon felt hot again.  The dining room and the living room and guest room were all empty.  I turned the switch and put the ceiling fan on upstairs.

Outside, the lawn was brown.  There hadn’t been any rain in a while.  Heat pressed down the atmosphere on the horizon up to Mohonk.  Down in the basement things smelled like cat urine.  Had there been a cat down here?  I opened the door to the second cellar room and began scavenging about.  Clear white plastic tarp over thirty feet of life’s history.  The bed I need is under there somewhere.  The Chekhov paperback I want is also in there somewhere. 

My daughter and I take up one chair, two chairs, three chairs, four up the narrow stairway.  This chair-circle will have to do, positioned in the dining room, with a simple table to set the chips and salsa on.  We plugged in the refrigerator and figured out how to get the air con started back up.  Now the food is here.  So is the wine.  And we have an picnic-like lunch, sitting in a circle with my empty house. 

The younger one isn’t happy.  Upstairs in her room there are dead bugs.  Stink bugs.  Is that what they are really called?  There are two dozen or so, stink bugs lying about on the shag carpet.  Her sister’s room is empty.  Looking out the window from her room the trees that the neighbors up the hill had cut means that their home is now visible.  "Hi, there."

Downstairs the wine is cold enough now. No one has a bottle opener.  We push the cork into the neck and pour white wine into fancy glasses we’ve found and unpacked in the basement. 

Saturday 7/14/18