Fleeting House (Daily Planet email #1130)

Out back under meagre light and sideways sleet, I trudge over a mixture of snow and pebbles on my broken sidewalk toward the corner of my house. I’ve already taken the dogs out and am thoroughly soaked, so I might as well. Above the gap-toothed asphalt siding, an ice dam has taken down part of my gutter and a deluge of water is pouring down the side of the wall, definitely pooling in my basement. Maybe the water in the walls will kill the mice. Well, I certainly can’t get up there now and nobody will come out until Monday at least, so here I am and there it stays.

I pause under a slight overhang where the wind is slightly drier. I look over at Ted’s place – his ankles are so swollen I don’t think he’s been out since spring, poor guy. Over there is Eileen and Ron, I know she drives to church, but I haven’t seen Ron in the longest time. I imagine him couch-ridden, surrounded by his newspapers and empty Diet Coke cans, probably not too far from the truth. And there’s Erroll’s old house where the light is always on and his nephew comes out once a week or so to make sure nothing has gotten worse. And it hasn’t.

It could have been the tapping of a rope on a schoolyard flagpole or the dragging of a tailpipe going by, but I am suddenly reminded of a song from childhood. It’s a silly little tune, but it comes with a certain memory where I am at my friend Robby’s house, playing KerPlunk during winter break. The song must have been on the radio when his older sister comes in and starts yelling at us to keep it quiet. It’s the craziest thing, but at that moment she’s the most beautiful girl I have ever seen. Both gone now.

That sudden song and those memories give me the strength to turn a bitter door knob, open the rickety screen door, and go into that pale, yellow light. I can surround myself with four walls of once-intentional intent and sit at that table of nicks and scuffs and call it mine, this good fortune of shelter. There’s a piece of pie in the fridge. The dogs will be expecting their treats. I think I can find my way from here, through the sleet and song. An inner voice tugs at my elbow: “All is forgiven.” ...maybe even myself.

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