So I bought this house. After 16 years in a condo enduring constant abuse by a Satanic troglodyte neighbor, I finally managed to get the fuck out of Dunwoody, took the plunge, sold and moved intown. I bought a little brick cottage; an estate sale. Its owner was a 94 year old woman named Tommie Fields. She died and left the house and everything in it. I now own a big pile of personal belongings that tell a story about someone I did not know; someone fundamentally different from me.
This is still Tommie's house. I own it and all, but it's got 60 years of Tommie's belongings, events, feelings, spirit, and being. It's why I've hesitated moving in. I've frantically leaned on close friends for one more night in a clean organized environment. But it's time to begin.
Even with my own stuff piled around hers it still has the smell and feel of Tommie. I will slowly make it my own, with deliberate steps and lots of elbow grease. Max is coming over to spend first night with me, to reassure me that I've done the right thing, and to help the chaos settle to a warm rhythm of timeless comfort and efficient calm.