Neverreally understood what she meant, but now… I think I did. I spentendless hours sitting by the window, staring out onto the ocean water, watching thehypnotic waves and letting the crystal reflection of the sunon its surface burnmy eyes. And then, at night, I’d watch obsessively as the moonplayed with the waves lapping in its light.
But now,I was faced with an aging property, one that had clearly beenneglected. The old-fashioned wood siding, once a cape cod blue, hadfaded into a lifeless grey. Pieces had fallen off and sat on theground below, the relentless grass grew over parts of the boardswhich gave me an idea of how long they had been lying there. Somewindows in the second storyhad been boarded up. I wondered then, what had my father’sstate of mind really been like these last few years and my chestfilled with anxious waves of guilt and regret.
Was it myfault?
Ifollowed Aunt Mary to the front step, careful to avoid the bottomone that was clearly rotting, the rust-colored wood peeking out through cracks andmissing chunks. I hopped up to the third step and then made my wayacross the large front porch as she unlocked the door.
Itopened with a loud creak, threatening to fall off its hinges and, as Istepped over the threshold, the familiar scent of my childhoodpunched me in the face. The distinct smell of old books, awood-burning fire, and leather. It never lessened, even after allthese years. The only thing missing was the pleasant taint of bakedgoods, which aired out with my mother’s passing yearsago.
I looked atMary. “What the heck happened? Why did Dad let the house get thisway?”
She shruggedapologetically. “Who knows, m’love? The mind of a dying man is alonely place.”
She walkedover to the woodstove and tossed in a small log along with somecrumbled-up sales flyers from the box next to it. Within a minuteshe’d had a fire going and closed the cast iron door.
“He leftit to you, though. That much I know.”
My heartfluttered. “The house?”
“Yep,like I said before, and the bakery. Along with a bunch of otherstuff. It’s all in the will. We can go over it tonight when you’redone here if you want.”
All theseyears, especially after my dad got sick, I always said to myselfthat I didn’t want any of it. No reason to come back. But now,being here, seeing the state of what’s left of my past life… I feltan odd compulsion to stake a claim. To fix it. Make it mine. It’swhat my mom would want.
“Thatwould be nice, thanks.” I glanced around at the fairly empty frontroom. “So, where should I start?”
Mary rolledher eyes. “Follow me.”
She brought medown the hallway toward the end of the house that faced the ocean.But the blaring sunlight that I remembered once filling the spaceand pouring out from my mother’s office was missing. Instead, Iwalked down a shadowed hall half-filled with aging boxes, papersspilling out of them and onto the floor below my feet. When I cameto the mouth of the room, I nearly choked on my breath.
Mom’s office.It was a disaster. The hallway was like a preview of what wascontained in the circular space. Towers of boxes, half fallingapart, papers flooding the floor, unable to even see the beautifulhardwood I knew lay beneath it. Her antique desk, once a giant inthe room, was now dwarfed by the mountain of stuff that smotheredits surface.
Mary looked atme and slapped her arms at her sides. “I imagine this is as good aplace as any to start. There’s a lot of things of your mother’sthat the museum wants. But it’s up to you what goes and whatstays.” She turned and headed toward the door, patting me on theshoulder first and then handing me the key. “I’ll leave you to it.Call over to the house if you need anything.”
***
Five hourslater, I’d barely made a dent. All I managed to do was create moreof a mess, it seemed. But I had attempted to organize things, atleast. Four piles laid out on the floor in front of me, each markedby a box.
One for papersthat seemed to be important to our direct family, one forcertificates of authentication so I could match them to objectslater, one of straight-up garbage, and then the miscellaneous pile.The biggest one. The further I went, the more I worried about myfather’s state of mind before he passed away.
Why was helooking through boxes of scrolls and books that held birthcertificates dated as far back as the early 1600s? I even found onebox in the hallway that was literally just full of broken things;buttons, ripped pictures, jewelry, dishes. Most of the items wereMom’s, which I found really odd. Was he taking out somefrustrations? Was it evidence that he attempted to clean up Mom’sstuff? Or perhaps the box was just that; a container of brokenthings my mother couldn’t part with. I’ll never know.
I tossedanother random piece of paper in the garbage pile and looked outthe big bay window of Mom’s office. I may have created more of amess, but I did bring the height of it all down. The gorgeous viewthe space once offered now re-emerged and the orange-blue sunsetcast an eerie and magical glow across the room.
My mindwandered through the library of memories it held as I starred outupon the ocean water, watching the way the twilight waves came tolife in the moonlight and played with the colorful reflection ofthe setting sun. The only time of day the two worlds met. Iremembered then, something my mom once told me.
“You see that, sweetie?” she’d asked, pointing out to thewater as I stood on the deep window bench in my room. “The moon andthe sun playing together. Isn’t it beautiful?”
I nodded, inawe of the gorgeous display but also my mother’s soothing voice.Soft as sugar and milk on bread. She bent down then and spokequietly in my ear.
“It’s the only time the two can meet. The sun and the moon,touching like that. It’s magic, Dianna. Don’t forgetthat.”
“What kind of magic?” I asked.
“If you
