Today strangers came into what will soon be not my home. They came to see the rooms. And, also saw, our beautiful family pictures. My paintings. Our jungle of plants. The little tools I made to teach her… the difference between a Sycamore and a Maple; a Cherry that flowers and a Cherry that fruits delicious, nourishing things (if the heat doesn't come too soon or the frost out of season to kill those lovely blossoms). These strangers saw our little mishmash wall of ancestors. Could they have mistaken the many beds in each room for something else? Our fullness for clutter?
Did they see our artifacts as some shallow aesthetic or did they somehow feel that we were trying to hold onto, trying to re-remember, that we came from somewhere. That this new place (to maybe be theirs) was, so shortly before, the only place we had left to be together.
Although we did not build these walls, truly, we built something here. We tried, so hard, but are no longer remembered as s/killed.