First Days of Housesitting as a Writer
I stayed with Claudio for four days before he departed. It was too many days.
He suggested I come early to get the lay of the land, but I soon realized that it was mainly because he was lonely. Which would have been fine if he had wanted someone to talk to, but he really just wanted someone to talk toward.
After he left, I expected things to get better—for the place to become more my own. In the mornings I awoke with excitement; Another chance to work my routine, to sit and write, to have a day to myself to work on my new craft.
But by nighttime some fog would creep into my veins and I would feel, inexplicably, sad.
I blame it on the energy of the place. The piles of things filling empty spaces and set to remain here until someone dies or the house is sold.
A younger, more hopeful person will then come in, begin bagging things, perhaps for donation, but most likely for the landfill.
Oh the useless tasks we leave for others when we part.
Can I blame the clutter? The constant reminder of death from two sick and aging dogs? One who needs daily insulin shots and another who loses hair in clods and can’t drag herself more than 30 feet at a time?
Or is it just simply that I am lonely—or worse—afraid?
photo courtesy of pixaby.com