"The Biography of a Real Man," 2012

Excerpt from chapter one of a book currently being written: "The Biography of a Real Man"
2012
By Rachel Mead

Chapter One- November 14^th, 2003

            The house is too silent, too still. The floors no longer creak with movement from a walker or a wheelchair, the curtains shutter as the wind blows and outside the naked limbed trees stand straight and rigid. Dust lay on the floor like flurries of snow and I wonder if any pieces contain my grandfather’s skin.

            For a year I avoided this home as if my presence would destroy all that remains. My hurt, my suffering, my distress would tear down the walls, crack through the foundation and collapse the roof. I scared myself into thinking that I was in some way a force of ruin. But the obligatory duties of those left behind to care for the messes of the deceased fell on my shoulders. It was necessary that either my brother or I would have to revisit my grandfather’s home in order to clean it out, fix it up and sell it to another family. Even if Paul was here and not off backpacking through Europe, I would have refused his help or inclusion in the process. My fears could not hold back the sense that this I must do alone. 

            My entrance was anti-climactic. I prepared my psyche for three weeks, for that one moment when I would return to where my grandfather took his last breath. I envisioned dramatic change, an entirely different home. For some reason I thought that since my grandfather was gone, the evidence of his life would disappear as well. I even half expected to find strangers sitting on the sofa with books in hand, taking comfort in their new home.

But as I walked through the front door, dressed in all black, with my hair tied in a bun, I realized the only alterations that have taken place are in the forms of decay. Small cracks in the walls climb toward the ceiling and chips of paint have fallen into the thick layer of dust caked to the wooden and carpeted floors. Without being cared for, the house has declined into a shell of its former self.

I haven’t moved from the entry way. My body feels heavy, my feet tired. I fear the next step I take will alter this museum of recollections and memories. I fear the drastic change my presence will cause. I stand, debating my next move. I cannot retreat, can no longer hide from what now unveils before me; the silent emptiness. The evidence of his absence startles me. I try to convince myself that he isn’t dead, that instead he’s out, driving to the park, to the grocery store, to the doctor’s office. But, then, I remember the heavy breathing, the colorless skin, the moans, the skeletal, corpse like body, the shrunken black eyes.

To forget is impossible.

I take the first step. My shoe lifts some of the dust. My heart beats with rapid expectancy and my eyes spring from wall to wall, from floor to ceiling, memorizing all the changes a year has made.

I walk down the hallway. My sadness dissipates as I tread further inside. My heart calms and grows warm and a nostalgic smirk extends across my face. My feet begin to move at a faster pace. I am awed by the sensation. The corrosion and decay do not matter as the recollections of the past act out before my eyes. Although time beats upon the house’s structure with the rhythm of an inevitable end, the memories of what was linger and cling to the scarce physical remnants as if struggling against time’s continuation.