I sit in the darkness of my Oma’s Swedish A-frame. Typing away some assignment on a Thursday night. I think about the Swedish man that built this house. The stuffed mallard mounted on the mantle wall. How there were two, but he took one when he left.
I wonder if he knew the castle he’d built here would grant a girl such refuge. This house is the last place I have from my childhood. I’ve followed the deer tracks down by the bog and filled my skort with so many acorns they spilled out of my pockets. I’ve hunted easter eggs and built new Christmas toys on the kitchen floor. I’ve blown out birthday candles and cried over pretty boys in the loft. I’ve laid backwards the slat staircase to stare at the room upside down. I’ve hid in every corner and in every flower bed for the longest, most competitive games of hide and seek known to man. I’ve wasted away summer days in the gazebo, devouring John Green novels until the sun set. I’ve glided a razor scooter down the sidewalk-less roads with only Opa, my sister, and the morning birds to guide our journey. I’ve watched Charlotte’s Web (1973) more times that I can possibly count. I said goodbye to my Opa for the last time in this very living room. When the skin on his hand was softer than mine, and his perfectly twirled mustache finally gave way to the chemo. I’ve sat with his ghost, and I have told him everything.
I know I have no control over what happens to this house. Eventually the things will be divided and bickered over. The furniture will be donated, the cars sold. I don’t get a say in where any of it goes. I know there’s more relinquishing to do, that the final act of love is always the letting go. But this house never asked me to save it, it only ever wanted to save me.