The Key

Photo Credit: Sue Vincent

 

Practically everyone but the real-estate agent had been against him purchasing the place.

“That heap of rot is a death trap,” his friend Tomas had said.

“It is haunted,” Fran had shuddered. “You’ll get murdered in your sleep and become another ghost, just like them.”

Others hadn’t been much subtler:

“The place is a wreck!”

“This monster will eat up all your money and spit you out broke and homeless.”

“Are you out of your effing mind?”

“Gosh, Dude, you need a shrink!”

To be fair, the last two statements were probably true. … Not that this stopped him from finding ways to manage all these years without a shrink. Not that there weren’t times during the first year in the house, when the old thing seemed intent on falling about his ears and his bank account skied a Black Diamond toward zero, when he didn’t wonder whether his mental health was sliding south just as precipitously.

But he’d held on to his bootstraps and soldiered on. In part to not lose face but mostly because he had indeed sank so much of his limited assets into the house that there was no way out but through. He gave up his rental apartment in town and erected a tent in the middle of the mansion’s living room where the roof leaked the least. He uncovered the well and hauled out buckets of muck before clean water once more found purchase. He cleared paths through the overgrown hedges and the man-height weeds that overtook what had been a lawn around the house. He scraped moss and mold off of stone walls. He evicted pigeons, rats, squirrels, countless spiders, and a skunk that made sure her discontent lingered. He discovered woodwork under paint, a carved gate under briars, a clubfoot tub under rubble, and a door to a hidden passageway behind a rotting cabinet.

Here and there a friend would agree to help with this or that, and twice he’d hired someone with engine-muscle to lug out things that needed more than human-power. But most his friends couldn’t help (and some refused to ‘enable’ what they declared an insanity), and hiring anyone ate big bites out of a budget that wasn’t hefty to begin with. So he buckled down and did much of the work himself, making small but steady dents in a mountain he did not think would ever yield to order. The list of things left to do only kept growing: parts of the roof needed repair, the kitchen floor needed replacing, the electric lines were too ancient to hold power, the pipes leaked, and the sewers were more roots than flow. The work was Sisyphean.

And still … between moments of sheer desolation and utter despair, he realized that he was actually sleeping soundly for the first time in his life. A smile would sneak onto his lips as he sanded this or patched up that or cleared another mess of spider webs or thickets. He hummed an ear-worm for a whole weekend and no one shushed him for not being able to carry a tune.

It was as if he’d accepted the house and its flaws, and the house in return had accepted him. He felt happy. He felt at home.

The realization stunned him.

Though he wouldn’t have been able to articulate it at the time, he came to understand that the reason he had been drawn to purchasing a run-down estate with overgrown grounds in the middle of a god-forsaken forest, was in part because of memories of another building surrounded by a tall stone fence: the “Home” that never truly was one and yet had been the only model he’d had.

He’d accumulated more moments of abject misery in the “Home” than he ever wanted to recall. Countless nights yearning to be old enough to leave … even as he’d feared the day he would be made to do so.

This long-neglected house with its aged stone fence and beautiful wide gate, was his. No one could tell him he’d aged out and could not stay. No one could tell him that his bed is needed to make room for someone else, or that it was time for him to fend for himself and no longer rely on the charity of others to feed and clothe and put a roof over his head.

It didn’t matter that the repairs would take years and that most of the rooms would not be usable for just as long. It didn’t matter that he didn’t have a clear plan for what he’d use all these rooms for. What mattered was that this old place was real. That it was full of history and memory. That it stood firm onto the ground and offered to be the roots he’d otherwise have no way to lay claim to. This house was him. Healing it was the key to who he could become.

 

 

For Sue Vincent’s Write Photo prompt invitation

 

24 thoughts on “The Key

  1. That’s a good story. It does seem like certain houses come into our lives at key times because they are part of our life plan – not all houses mind – some truly are haunted nightmares ๐Ÿ™‚

    Liked by 1 person

    • Thank you, Sue!
      Interestingly, this is of course an adult who is renovating the house but … in many ways we all have pieces of ourselves that remain children, especially if unloved or if we are still seeking to fill the voids that adversity had left and we hadn’t at the time the resources to heal.
      I’m so glad that the mutuality of the house and the person got communicated — the broken places in ourselves can be mended (not necessarily without scars to show for the path we’d taken), just like in the house.
      ๐Ÿ™‚
      This was a fantastically evocative photo of yours–so thank YOU!
      Na’ama

      Like

  2. This was a fabulous piece, Na’ama. House and man belonged and needed each other. Nothing like the conviction you are doing the right thing, despite all the naysayers, to help you come into your own. Just the fact he is sleeping at night makes it so.
    Truly wonderfully done.

    Liked by 1 person

    • Thank you, Dale! I’m so glad both the struggle and conviction came through, along with the realization drive and possibility. We’re complicated things, we humans are, aren’t we?

      I had a discussion with a good friend a while back. About conscience and PTSD and war (on battlefields of all kinds, including those of difficult childhoods, illness, loss, and grief) and so on. We’ve come to the possible conclusion that while psychopaths often sleep well at night (i.e. no guilt, no shame, no worries, no losing sleep over what one could’a should’a woulda’ done differently) … for the majority of us (for the majority are NOT psychopaths, thank goodness), achieving a peaceful sleep after times without one, may well be a sign of healing. As it may reflect one is not so tormented by the past and not so anxious about the future as to lose sleep over it.
      He’s sleeping better than ever before. That says something …
      ๐Ÿ™‚
      THANK YOU again for this lovely feedback!
      Na’ama

      Liked by 1 person

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