Seeing the light

In the 99% humidity yesterday afternoon I met the soon-to-be-new-owners over at my dad's house so they could make some lists of things they'd need to do. They wanted to pull up a corner of the carpeting and see if there were hardwood floors below (there are) and if it was glued down or loose-laid (that seems to be the case in the area we checked).

For a little while, I sat in their car while their youngest, the daughter who will be two tomorrow, napped. I remember when she was born. I closed my eyes and thought of all the memories made in my childhood home. Opening one eye, I looked at the porch and thought of the time when I was four and a neighbor kid and I sat underneath chewing up peanuts and spitting them into a jar. We were making peanut butter! We thought we were brilliant doing it without any fancy equipment. I remembered picking up the horse chestnuts - a favorite activity still of any kid who walks below those trees. Nobody can resist their shiny beauty. My dad had made me little tools to carve them into dishes for elves and fairies. I wonder where those are now. Did I pack them up along with other things?

When the toddler woke up, I went back inside and continued to gather the last few family memories I needed to transport over to the repository at my house. As usual, I spent the most amount of time in the kitchen. So many times these past many months - and truly, for years before that, when the rest of the house overwhelmed, I'd retreat to the kitchen, where I could create order, often by immersing dusty relics in soapy water and meticulously and therapeutically wash away the grime. Yesterday, I washed the wire baskets I'd brought home years ago that Dad had hung up in the office. Maybe I can put them in the basement and hang potatoes and onions in there ... or art supplies ... or ...

With my hands in the soapy water, my eye caught the orange petals of the Dansk lamp I'd assembled and hung in the breakfast nook back in high school. I moved in there to inspect it closely again: How the heck does one clean this thing, I wondered. I'm pretty sure I thought that back when I put it together, piece by piece.

It struck me: It's rather like the light at the end of the tunnel. A beacon that there is an end to this project. A thought that's both lovely and a little bit sad.