Haunted Houses

We attended the Gwynne Vahn Park garden party as has been the tradition for the last few years, but this time it was a torrential downpour.

I don't mind returning there, I have good memories of the old Victorian lady... but I also see her as being a prison I lived in for five years. I did my time and I ain't goin' back. She seems less dark than when we lived there... the trees seem to hug the walls a little less closely. I would have taken a full photo of the grounds but unfortunately, there were tents set up in the front garden room...

How strange to see everything with this disconnection. With fondness. I can hear the ghosts in the magnolia trees... feel the echo of our lives around me. Somewhere under the maple tree, my amethyst ring, the cat's grave over there, this is where I told him I was going to St. Louis. This is where my son stood, naked as the day he was born, speaking to the Sunday churchgoers on their family stroll.

I am relieved to be done. How cellular it was to live in those worlds, rattling around in the one-hundred year old dust.

Now it's time for just remembering without the sticky nuisance of emotion.

Hall-e-fucking-lujah.

G.