Artifacts of Loss

2008 was the last summer I spent at her house. The odd kitchen that constantly smelled of her cigarettes, bacon, and the wet grass outside. On the porch, she kept a small chalkboard where we’d write the day’s menu. I was a picky eater growing up, but I always came back well-fed from grandma’s. We’d use the long driveway as a raceway. Scooters, then bikes. She’d make sure we didn’t chase any loose balls onto the highway from her garden that wrapped around the back of the house. Always bountiful in the summer. She hated the rabbits and squirrels who stole her harvest, but would share with them anyways.

Her eyes went bad around the market crash, which I don’t think she would have minded if it didn’t steal her agency, too. She downsized to a one bedroom apartment in Hastings, which only had room for a few of her relics: the golden mirror, the grandfather clock. The other residents loved her despite her inclination to cheat at cards and Yahtzee and anything that had a defined winner and loser.

The security deposit and first month’s rent for my first solo apartment was nearly the exact same amount of money I’d gotten from the bonds she’d gifted me throughout childhood. I don’t believe in coincidences. But I do believe in fate.

In 2022, I made the trip back to Elbow Lake. In the decade in between, an overgrowth had swallowed her house whole. Nothing but the trees were recognizable from the street.

It was cathartic to see someone, a new owner or the old owner with a new lust for life, has trimmed down the wreckage that had cocooned her beautiful white rambler with that faded blue trim — even if it’s just a picture.

Grandma’s house via Google Earth - 2009, 2013, 2018, 2024