my father had carved for my mother that she kept hanging on the wall year-round.
“Wow, this place is …” Presley breathes beside me, her head extending all the way back on her neck to look up at the cavernous ceilings and exposed wood beams. “You grew up here?”
I chuckle. “That I did.”
“This is something out of a Georgian plantation.” The smile on her face is goofy.
“Want to buy it? Only a cool five hundred thousand.”
I really hoped Mom got the asking price for the house. It was the highest listing in the area, but this house was worth it, and we were hoping someone from out of the county would come in and scoop it up. There had to be a family from any of the nearby cities who had been considering a move to the country and would see my parent’s home and fall in love.
My heart beats a nostalgic, sad rhythm when I think about someone else growing up here. When I think about other little boys hiding in all of its nooks, and about a mom rounding them all up to sit at the dinner table until they’re excused. This house deserves that, and I know my own mom won’t rest until a buyer of that caliber makes an offer.
“Oh, Keaton, good! I need you to—”
Mom is a ball of energy as she comes barreling down the hallway toward us with stacks of boxes in her hands. And the minute she sees the gorgeous redhead standing next to me, she shoves them into my arms.
“Presley! Oh gosh, my son didn’t tell me you were coming over! I would have mixed us up a nice couple of glasses of my strawberry iced tea. Oh, I’m so glad you’re here!” She hugs my girlfriend.
I bobble the boxes, peeking inside as one of the lids almost clocks me in the jaw. Photos, hundreds and hundreds of them, are stacked inside. She must have gotten these down from the attic … which is a good thing because it means she’s finally taking my advice to clean house. Literally.
“Oh, there was no need, really. I’m just glad I got to come over here before it sold to see the place where Keaton grew up.”
“And I’m glad that my son finally got his head out of his butt and asked you out.”
I raise an eyebrow at her. “Didn’t you practically force me to ask her out by sending us up alone on a Ferris wheel?”
She waves her hands at me and motors past us into the kitchen. “I need to clean out a couple more things before the open house this weekend. Keaton, honey, could you get the boxes of China down from the upper cabinets? You know I never could reach those.”
Presley sits at the counter as my mother uncovers the boxes I just set down on the island, and they’re thumbing through pictures while I struggle not to drop priceless antique dishes. Being up here, cleaning out these cabinets, it reminds me of when my father would reach into the high places and take things down for my mother. How he’d tease her for living among a hoard of gangly giants, also known as her sons. And then she’d swat him and he’d wrap her up in a hug.
Looking back, my parents had their own language of love that I’d never noticed as a kid. The grief that always resided in my figure sighed with weariness. It lived in the ache in my chest, the set of my shoulders, the clenching of my jaw. After you lost a person so essential to who you were, their passing and the sadness of it took hold of your bones and muscles.
I know I was the one who finally convinced Mom to put her house on the market, and it was for practicality and her own sanity. But I hadn’t understood what it would mean for me. Every time I walked over the floorboards, I thought about how it would be my last. The scratches on the walls where my brothers and I had knocked them playing tag, the creaky step we avoided when sneaking out … the memories hit me full force. It’s the end of an era, and I’m not manly enough to hide the sadness I feel.
Not that I’d ever admit that to my brothers. They’d probably punch me in the arm and tell me to grow a pair.
“Oh. My. God. Who is this cute little Dalmatian?” Presley squeals with laughter