I forgot to pray the first time I was here. I had meant to sit on the living room floor in front of the wood stove and ask the home to protect us and make us good and be good to us. I had meant to sit in the stillness and bigness and quiet and thank the family who spent their life here. To wish them ease in their big transition. The house was pulsating with her breath that evening and I breathed it too, almost uncomfortable with how much of her was still alive in it. I walked the house, every bit of it, opening closets and drawers, finding treasures here and there, some I imagine she meant to leave behind, others not. She left two lights on: one in the master bedroom closet and the other in the bathroom on the third floor. I wondered if she was by herself when she laid the keys on the kitchen counter and closed her door for the last time.
Into the quietness of the big old house I tinkled the old upright piano she left behind. I played the only song I can play by memory, the first song I learned, John Schaum’s Swinging Along, a simple tune about being happy and gay. Perhaps this was the hello, the question, the answer, the bow, the gratitude, the hope, the prayer.
Leave a Reply