Echos

ECHOES

If walls could talk, they would tell of cutlery dropping on the floor, wine corks pulled from bottles, and popcorn popping. They could tell stories of my life with Mitchel.

Now, it is just the sound of my footsteps bouncing off the walls in the mostly empty house. The echo seems to be looking for company in the shell of what was once my favorite place. Where Mitchel and I used to drink our morning coffee, sip afternoon wine, and play Scrabble after dinner.

Ever since I decided to move, the days spent packing have opened wounds that were hardly healed. Those ugly scars of grief that may fade in time, but will never go away.

The dining room furniture is gone, sold to a young couple who saw my post online. They seemed nice. I hope they’ll use the table to celebrate decades of happy occasions.

The rug is rolled, wrapped like a mummy waiting for transport to the museum. I would love to take it to the new place, but I’m told it’s a tripping hazard. Phooey. I haven’t tripped over it in all the time it’s been laying on this floor. Why all of a sudden it’s a hazard, I don’t know.

Almost none of my stuff is coming with me. Not enough space, I’m told, in the one room where a new single bed will cozy up to the old chest of drawers. That piece of furniture, with its blemishes and thinning veneer is where mom used to neatly fold her underwear and sweaters. She always slipped a rose sachet on top of the garments.

The overly sweet aroma still lingers. When I was younger, I thought it stunk. Now that Mom’s long gone though, I bury my nose in the scarves I keep there, hoping they absorb some of the fragrance. I am terrified that someday, if the smell of roses fades, so will my memories of her.

I wonder why she chose rose. She wasn’t a rosy person. If anything, I picture her standing in a grove of aspen trees, sunshine dappling her face through the trembling green leaves. She’d smell of poplar buds and wildflowers and wolf willow bushes. I get teary, thinking of her and the talks we used to have while she ironed or kneaded the bread dough until it was smooth and squeaked. I’d sit beside her on the old step stool, conveniently placed under the wall mounted crank phone.

My television will come with me. There is room for it on top of Mom’s dresser. With it being just at the foot of my bed, maybe I’ll get into the habit of watching it to help pass the time and to keep me company.

My green chair, the one that was a scratching post for a long-ago kitty, is coming, too. I got the chair from Eaton’s before I was even married, for goodness sake. The cushions now sag as much as my own behind, but it will be the only comfortable place I can sit and read my books.

I wish I could take my bed, where Mitchel and I used to hold each other and talk of the future, then of the end. It is heading to the charity shop, along with most of the stuff in the house.

I would have given some of my things to the step-kids, Mitchel’s kids, never mine, but they made it clear after Mitchel passed, they didn’t want anything to do with me. I feel bad about that. There are things they could make good use of, and things that meant something to their Dad.

He used to carry a beautifully engraved pocketknife. I’m not sure if it was a gift, or something that he’d purchased himself, but it’s not something I need or would carry. One of my nephews thinks it is special, so it’s now in his pocket. There was some scrimshaw art. It is unique and beautifully crafted, but I don’t have enough space. Those pieces now belong to a quirky, kind niece. She’s hung them where I’ll see them every time I visit.

The mover guys have come back from their smoke break. The front door squeaks, just as it’s done since Mitchel and I moved into the house twenty years ago. He wanted to fix it, but I told him I liked knowing when the door opened. I didn’t want anyone to be able to sneak in without me hearing them, I told him.

The house speaks to me again in echoes, this time of heavy boots and labored breathing while Mike and Robin, I think that’s their names, take the last of my boxes out to the truck. They’ve been working hard in the heat today. I can tell, cause one of them could really use a shower. I like them though. They have been incredibly polite and kind, even asking if I’d like them to leave the green chair until the last so I have someplace to sit. It’s time now for them to take it, so I stand and move to the window looking over the backyard.

It’s pretty, lined with flowers and bushes. The borders, graceful curves of paving stones, have been neatly edged by Lonnie, the landscaper. That used to be Mitchel’s job. He loved puttering back there, spending hours mowing, trimming, weeding, and pruning. With the unique summer smell of sweat, lawn mower gas, and freshly cut grass, he’d come into the house and kick off his old running shoes, stained green from countless revolutions of the yard behind the lawnmower. His old shorts always seemed to be covered in grass clippings or leaves, and I’d rag at him to brush off and not make a mess.

I didn’t enjoy yard work, except it had the reward of spending time with him. The paving stone border was always overrun with rogue grass, so we would start at opposite ends of the flower bed and work our ways toward the middle; toward each other. Sometimes we would chat, but more often it was just the sounds of summer that kept us company. Birds. Mosquitoes. And leaves rustling in the breeze. No, I didn’t enjoy yard work, but I loved spending time with him.

The new owners can have it now. I agree with them that it’s lovely, but when I see it, it only reminds me that Mitchel isn’t here anymore.

The charity shop’s van will be here any minute for whatever the movers have left behind. Then it will be time for me to leave.

I’ll be fine. The old folks’ home, or rather, the seniors’ residence as they now call it, is okay. It tries too hard to be a place you’d want to call home, enticing new residents with words like “supportive” and “active” and “carefree”.

I am very fortunate, though, because at least I am able to choose where to go. A lot of us old people don’t get that luxury. The kids make the decision, like finding the best kennel for the dog.

Oh, I know it’s a hard decision, but the end result is the same.

I am lucky. It’s not like I have to move. No one is making me uproot myself, but you see, that’s the point. I’m making this move before I must; before someone else makes the decision for me.

I don’t need much help. Mostly someone checking in on me to make sure I’m not laying on the floor, unable to get up. I don’t want a repeat of last year when I broke my hip and spent two days waiting for help. I’m still limping from the new joint and pins in my leg.

I suppose I need help with meals, too. I can’t be bothered to cook much anymore. I’m not hungry so toast is usually all I feel like eating.

All of this brings back bad memories of when we moved Dad out of his home. Us kids tried to make sure he was okay, but we couldn’t do enough from the distance. He was all alone, not eating, not taking care of himself, so we found a place and moved him. It didn’t have room for much, not even the old, flowered couch he used to stretch out on for afternoon naps.

He didn’t want to leave the house, I know, but I was afraid to talk to him about how he felt. I didn’t want to hear him tell me how unhappy he was; how much he missed Mom. It would have broken my heart, even more than it was already broken after Mitchel died.

I said earlier that finding a place for aging parents is like finding a kennel? That isn’t true. I didn’t feel that way when we had to move dad. Finding a kennel is a short-term thing, not a wrenching life decision made on behalf of someone who has no way out.

We swooped in on Dad’s life. He was an observer of the process, not a participant in his move one step closer to the grave.

I don’t want a repeat of that scene. No one will steamroll me into a warehouse for old people. I know they will say they are doing it “for me”, but that’s not how it will feel. It will be done to me. Isn’t it interesting how much difference the one little word makes? “For” versus “to”?

The other day, I caught sight of a reflection in a store window. At first, I felt sorry for that old woman, slightly stooped, breasts sagging halfway down her ample belly. Life must have worn her down, I thought. When I realized it was me, I was horrified. When did I get so old? Why in the world did I venture out into public looking like this?

I stopped and instead of going into Tim’s for a donut, I went the other way to the lingerie store. Their expert administrations and an outlay of almost a hundred bucks helped. I am not old. I refuse to be. I have bunions, but young people have them, too. I sag in places that used to be perky, but that’s gravity, not age. Right?

Now, I make an effort to stand a little straighter, especially when walking past store windows.

I turn to look out the open front door. The moving truck trundles down the street with my few possessions destined for the old folks’ home. A senior’s “moving” consultant will meet them over there and tell them where to put the stuff in my room.

The charity van is backing up the driveway now. It looks like it’s seen better days. The charity probably wishes someone will donate a truck. It would be more useful than the old furniture and bric-a-brac I’m giving them.

I watch well-worn men slowly get out of the cab and meander up the steps. I hope it won’t take them long to load what’s left.

I walk one last time across the hardwood floor. They are scratched now, from years of everyday life, dropped cutlery, and tiny rocks in shoes that should have been left at the front door. The echo reminds me of a different time in my life.

The walls will hear new sounds. The commotion of a family with young children playing and the dustmop (they call it a dog) barking. Good sounds.