Abandoned Places

To walk alone through an abandoned place is to embrace desolation. To open our chest to a sort of surreal sadness we normally try to shut out and confront something that lies in the uncomfortable space between the familiar and the unknown.

This tranquil place is an overgrown graveyard for a life that all at once became unsustainable. We all had to leave but the structures remained, withering and fading under a callous sky.

A mailbox on the corner had fallen as the wooden post rotted and sprouting plants broke apart the stonework that led to a decaying house. I pushed through the creaking door, knowing that to enter was to consent to the melancholic eeriness of returning to an empty home.

I thought that was all I would find here. Loneliness.

And yet, I came anyway.

I imagine for the same reason people watch sad movies: There’s a certain satiating catharsis in feeling sad on your own way, on your own terms.

Just inside, the entryway opened up into a fully furnished living room. The burgundy couches and shag carpet were dated, but I could see how in another life it would have been warm and inviting. Now it stagnanated in the uncanny stillness.

As I walked, the floors creaked beneath my heels as if the very foundation was unprepared for a visitor.

I felt almost offended by its groans and gripes. My father talked about returning here so often, and in his fantasies, the house welcomed us back in with open arms even after all these years.

Now he’s gone, and this house and I don’t recognize each other anymore.

I walked into the living room, striding between the couches, and kicking up dust that had settled in the carpet with each step. A large window across the room provided a view of the verdant forest outside and light poured through to cast patchy shadows across my face.

I have half a memory of playing with toys on the floor of this room. I can see myself here with my dolls while my mother cooked in the kitchen and my dad sat in the recliner with a book. But I’m not sure if it's a real memory or something my mind created by filling in the gaps of the stories my dad had told me.

Just behind the recliner were tall shelves packed from floor to ceiling with books. There was hardly a gap on the shelf that wasn’t filled with a stack of well-worn books. They lined the shelves like layered bricks, but then more would be packed on top of those or laid out in front of them, to the point where the shelves sagged with the weight of it all.

Dad was so heartbroken that he had to leave his books behind when they left this place.

Growing up, he’d tell me about some amazing sci-fi novel he read. He’d give me an essay worth of plot synopsis and tell me that it changed his life or made him think about the world or society differently. He’d tell me “I have a copy of it”, then he’d frown in realization and say “but it’s on the shelf at the old house”.

Analyzing the shelf, it was hard to even make out the titles with the layer of dust that covered them from over 2 decades of accumulation. I reached out and brushed my fingers along the spines of a few of the books at eye level until I could read the whole shelf's worth.

I wish those titles excited me as they did him, but I’ve never been a prolific reader. Most of the titles didn’t even look familiar to me but there were some of the big names: Isaac Asimov, H.G Wells, Ray Bradbury. I think I had to read Fahrenheit 451 in school.

I slid out his copy. The cover and spine marred with narrow ripples from being opened over and over again. Pages were dog-eared and several passages were underlined. He had written notes in the margins that ranged from college-level analysis of the book's themes to as simple as ‘!!!’.

I flipped through the book - reading his notes simply to see his handwriting again. I skimmed the passages he emphasized just to be reminded of his sensibilities, when one stood out to me:

“And when he died, I suddenly realized I wasn’t crying for him at all, but for the things he did. I cried because he would never do them again”

I closed the book softly and looked back to the shelf. I thought about all the times my dad told me he wanted to write his own novel one day, but he was always too busy. After they left this house he had to completely rebuild our lives while taking care of me and then eventually my mom.

No wonder he never this place go. This house was his pride. This shelf was his joy.

He would have hated to see it in this state.

I started brushing it down more. First with my fingers, then my hands, then with the sleeve of my jacket. I flung clumps of dust and debris off the side without noticing how much of it had landed on my clothes and shoes. I got on my knees and started on the lower shelves until my hands were coated in a layer of brown.

Still, the dust lingered in the cracks between the books and every square inch I hadn't touched, unwilling to let go of the things it claimed.

I sat back on my heels and sighed. The trees out the window shifted and swayed in the wind, warping the leafy shadows. Underneath the sound of the wind, though, I heard something else, something from above me.

A sort of creaking sound followed by the sound of scratching on wood.

I rose to my feet and looked up at the stained ceiling. Then a new sound, a sort of mewling screech came from beyond the panels above me. It was coming from the attic.

I’m not sure if part of me remembered the way to the attic, or if it was just a small enough place that there weren’t too many places it could be, but without hesitation, I found my way around the corner and to the wooden ladder that led upwards. I tested each step before trusting them with my body weight as I made my way up and pushed aside open the hatch cover.

The first thing that hit me when I peeked into the attic was the stream of light that poured through the gaping hole in the roof. A few of the beams had warped and pulled the ceiling apart. They let out an eerie creak when the wind tugged at them in their weakened state. A rogue tree branch had grown in through the hole, and the floor below it was covered in dry leaves and the roof tiles that had fallen in.

A low screech bellowed out again suddenly and I turned to find a pair of cryptic eyes staring back at me. It was a barn owl, hunched down and feathers ruffled to try to intimidate me out of my own family home.

My dad had told me all about the animals they had run out of this house in their time. It was a natural consequence of living in such a rural area - anything from rats and raccoons to coyotes and skunks would wander their yard or get into their trash and occaisionally even sneaking into the warmth of the house.

I climbed the rest of the way into the attic and stood up. I walked toward the owl, shoulders hunched, ready to try to intimidate it back when another higher-pitched screech filled the room. The sound came from the corner behind me but before I could turn to look, I watched as the owl before me as it lept from the beam it stood on and flew inches above my head.

It landed on a beam behind me and ducked down into the corner. There on the spandrel, shielded by sticks and various debris, were three little chicks. They lifted their fuzzy heads, screeching and begging with their mouths open wide.

My face softened and I knelt down to try to make the mother feel more comfortable. She watched me with leery eyes and positioned herself over the nest. The babies still squirmed and cried in disappointment when they realized she didn’t return with food.

I told myself my father would have been glad that someone was using this home since he couldn’t, but that assurance was only for my own comfort.

I can’t make this place what it was in his memory. I can’t take it back from the forces of time and nature. I can’t make us a family here again.

It was unfair of my dad to expect the house to wait for us. Even without us here this house was alive and changing to suit the life that still remained moving and changing around it.

This place will always be connected to him, but there's a certain beauty in letting go of it and letting nature run its course. It's more valuable to this barn owl family than it was ever going to be to me.

We're the alive ones and we can only move forward.

As the owl settled in her nest, the chicks nestled into her plumage. From here, as I take a last look at them, I can only hope they get the chance to grow up here that I never did.