My heart beats a little faster and I brace myself for the onslaught of memories as I fish the key from my pocket and slide it into the rusty lock.
The second I enter, big fat tears fill my eyes, and spill down my cheeks. “Oh, Gram,” I whisper in an unsteady voice, the rawness in my throat making my words hoarse. I take a deep wheezy breath as her essence fills the place and wraps around me.
I rock in place and briefly close my eyes. When I open them again, I can practically see her sitting by the window in front of her easel, singing to the “oldies” blaring from her radio. A garbled laugh bubbles in my raw throat. How many times did I beg to change the station? It was a running joke between us.
I nearly trip when I take another step, and that’s when I come across a pile of envelopes on the old wooden floor.
What the heck?
They must have been dropped through the old mail slot on the door. Why would mail still be coming here? Mom had everything rerouted to her in Victoria, didn’t she? Then again, maybe she forgot about the studio. If that’s the case who’s been paying the bills on the place since Gram died? I’ll have to check in with Ralph. I gather the envelopes up and drop them onto the kitchen table. They all seem to be from the same place. Pratt and Whitney Law Firm in Halifax. I rip into one letter and sink down into one of the old white painted chairs at the small kitchen table, the chairs Gram and I painted together one sunny summer afternoon when I was a pre-teen. I read the letter once, then twice, and drop it on the table to open another.
“No way,” I say out loud. I stand and shove the letters aside. Gram’s one wish was for me to cherish this place, turn it into a heritage home, where people can convene and paint, in groups, or alone. She wanted me to preserve the history of it, likely because it was our special place, and she never wanted to see it change hands, or land in the wrong hands. We all know whose hands she’s talking about.
Abandoning the letters, I continue my exploration and the old floorboards creak as I give the place a leisurely inspection. My wobbly heart swells, expands with the love I felt here—still do. The white sheets covering the furniture fill the air with dust as I remove them and fold them neatly. Old hinges on the cupboard whine with the opening and closing and when I find a few dented cans, no labels, I swipe at the falling tears, and sniff, my lips quivering as old, happy memories bombard me. Oh the fun Gram and I had opening those unmarked can to enjoy “surprise” lunches. Sometimes we found delicious juicy peaches, sometimes beans.
“Oh, Gram I miss you,” I say, pushing the words past the lump in my throat.
There is nothing I want more than to fulfill her wish of turning this place into a heritage home, but maybe I won’t do it right away. No, I might need to spend some time here alone before restoring it and opening it to the public. Perhaps I won’t even restore it this trip. I might want to come back in the spring, to a time when Gram and I made all of our memories. But in the meantime, I’ll gather information from the Heritage Society, and fill out the necessary paperwork.
Wind whistles outside, and a warm sense of peace comes over me as I grab the stack of letters, and take them with me. After one last glance, I climb back into the rental, wipe away the streaks of tears, and head back to town. I press the button on my steering wheel to call my mother. Perhaps she knows something about the lawyers wanting to buy the place.
“Call Linda Palmer,” I say to the canned voice.
The phone rings a few times, and mom comes on.
“Hey Mom, it’s Kira.”
The phone is quiet for a second. I probably caught her in the middle of some important project.