Wil Wheaton [Wil Wheaton] - Dancing Barefoot

Printing History:

Its been almost a year since Aunt Val died. Though we were all promised that her house would remain in the family, it has been sold, and there are many things to be picked up and moved out.

My dad has asked me to help him pick up a china cabinet that is intended for my mother. I wonder why he didnt have my younger, stronger brother help out, but I dont ask. Im always happy when my dad wants to do things together.

We ride in comfortable silence. Im lost in thought, wondering what I could talk to my dad about: baseball? the kids? my family? work? We end up talking about them all and the drive passes very quickly.

As we drive down Aunt Vals street, it hits me: this is it. I will never make this drive, this drive that Ive made since I was in a car seat, again. Ive been asked to help my dad move furniture, but Im really here to say goodbye to this house thats been part of my life since I was a child.

A tremendous sadness consumes me as we back into the driveway.

I exchange polite hellos with Aunt Vals daughter, who is responsible for the sale of the house, and walk inside.

Its the first time Ive been here since her death. The house feels cold and empty. The furniture is gone, the walls are mostly bare, and Aunt Vals warmth and love is missing.

Certain things remain strangely untouched: her bookcase, filled to overflowing with pictures of the family. Childrens artwork... some of it mine... still dominates the side of the living room, the recliners where my great grandparents spent the last ten years of their lives opposite. I remember sitting in my Papas chair while Aunt Val sat next to me, watching Love Boat and Fantasy Island, thrilled that I was staying up past my bedtime, watching shows intended for grownups, putting one over on my parents who would often drop my siblings and me off for the weekend.

I loved those weekends. When we spent time with Aunt Val we were loved. We were the center of the universe and though she was well into her 70s, she would play with us, walk with us to the corner store to get snacks, let us stay up late. It was wonderful.

In the living room, the table where Aunt Val would put the artificial tree at Christmas is gone, though its footprints still mark the carpet. In my mind, I put it back, fill the space beneath it with gifts, warm the air with the laughter and love of the entire family gathered around it, singing songs and sipping cider.

I blink and the room is empty again. The warm light of memory is replaced with the harsh sunlight of the fading afternoon. Aunt Vals dog Missy noses at my hand, asking to go outside.

I lead her toward the patio doors. Aunt Vals dining room table, where the adults would sit at reunions and holiday meals, is still there, covered in paperwork and trash. Her daughters ashtray overflows. Its a little obscene.

When I was little, Aunt Val would always sit at the card table the kids table with us, and when I was 14 or so I was moved to the adults table. The next year I begged to be granted a spot with her at the kids table again.

Missy is impatient. She urges me through the kitchen. I look at the cabinet where my great grand-parents kept their Sugar Corn Pops cereal. Regardless of the time of day my brother and sister and I would arrive at her house, we were always hungry for cereal.

Aunt Val was always happy to oblige.

This cabinet, which I couldnt even reach, which held much mystery and wonder, is now empty, and at my eye level. I am sad that my own children will never get to look up at its closed door and proclaim themselves starving with a hunger that can only be cured by a trip to the Honeycomb hideout.

The kitchen counters are littered with dishes and glasses. Notes written in Aunt Vals handwriting still cling to the refrigerator, surrounded by my cousin Joshs schoolwork.

They say that when a house is passed over by a tornado, it can do strange things to the things inside. They say that sometimes a whole room can be destroyed and the table will still be set, candlesticks standing, untouched by the violence of the storm. As I look at the refrigerator, unchanged in nearly a year, I wonder why some things have been left alone, while others have been completely dismantled. Its like a half-hearted attempt has been made to honor her memory.