It's this time every year that the disturbances start. Small things at first, a shuffling on the stairs, something fleeting just on the peripheral. Nothing much really, but something. Something wanting to be heard, seen, felt, understood. Then the loud stuff begins, furniture being moved back and forth upstairs at all hours of the day and night, heavy thuds and bumps, doors opening on their own. And that odd little brown-black smudge that fades in and out, fluttering before our eyes like a strange little bird.
She went to the next world in 1988, on the 22nd day of October. Only 68 years old, a former textile worker in the old mill up the street. Too young to die. Must have been the lungs. So many textile workers died of lung disease. Her husband was raised in this house and later they brought up thier own children here. Purchased from the mill when it was new, some hundred and fifty years ago, my home has only known two families; the Goffs and the Griffiths. Here in the mill village it's still referred to as the Goff house, a southern tradition of calling a home after it's owner. And that's okay, we would know better than anyone that this is still home to a few Goffs.
I don't know if it's Ora who stirs so often this time every year or if it's the poor disturbed boy, the one who would intercept letters from the special school he attended and rip them up and stuff them under the staircase before she could read them. We found these and other things during renovations. Each time we carefully replaced whatever we found, telling him it was still safe, still a secret. So long ago. So much pain.
There has to be a good reason we've purposely left one of the upstairs fire places boarded up. That was his room. No one has said so but it's understood. It's my room now, but I know I'm only a guest. Most days I'm tolerated, but often I'm not. I sit at my desk quietly, trying to read or sort through other affairs, mindful of signs that he may be tired of me. If I stay too long or bother too many things I'm rewarded with the smell of motor oil, gasoline, or charred wood for days. I wish he was happy. I wish he could be at peace. This world is so damned hateful, even if you don't have a disability. I can't be his mother, his friend, his guide, his counsel. He doesn't want that. He's angry. And hurt.
I remember our first morning here, the aroma of coffee brewing and fresh baked biscuits wafting up the stairs, waking us. But before our footsteps touched the landing it was gone. And that's when we knew. She was saying "Welcome home, I'm glad you're here. Now get to work, there's a lot to be done." And then there was the time I was upstairs sewing at two in the morning, my husbands voice at the foot of the stairs, urgent, worried. Decending the steps like the house was on fire, I quickly found myself standing alone in a dark kitchen, listening to the soft sounds of his sleep coming from our room. But I knew what to do, I flew to the baby's room and found her burning up with a fever of 103 degrees.
So we think we know when it's him and when it's her. She's helpful and kind, and he likes to play drums in the music room at odd hours, make awful smells and move furniture about. But we've never understood the small brown/black smudge that flutters like a bird. It's curious that we can live here knowing there are things we should investigate, but purposely never do. I'm sorry she died too soon. And I'm sad for him, suffering in isolation as he must have. How do I thank her? How do I wish him peace? I ponder these things in the autumn time on walks behind the mill, the little park between us, or down by the river's edge. It's odd sharing a house with someone and not knowing how to communicate.
Thank you, Ora and Jamie, for sharing your house and looking over us another year. And if you read this, know that the mortgage is always paid on time and we never intend to sell.
Peace.
10:21 a.m. - 2006-10-16
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