Rebecca and I are inspired by the Fantastical and Futuristic possibilities of Generation F. My piece was sparked by the photography series “Home” by Gohar Dashti, which explores abandoned homes reclaimed by nature.
A quiet but ravenous upturning is under way. The walls of this old house are awash in the vibrant cicada green of emerging moss. The iron gate is rusted orange, its filigree woven with vines. The windows blink, the house heaves wearily (or in relief?), having shucked off its responsibilities to people and their soft, tender bodies.
Unencumbered by a roof, the hardwood floors enjoy a view of the night sky. The stars are visible, for what used to be a bustling city full of electricity and lightbulbs is now aligned once more with the comings and goings of the sun.
The people, soft and tender, have gone, their softness and tenderness hardening along the way. Gone, too, are their buttons and their gadgets, their stubborn wrangling of the thing they called time. All the minutes have been set free from the no-longer-ticking clock in the dining room. Westerly winds chip away at the house’s last paint job—a sort of lemon chiffon—exposing the bubblegum pink underneath, and the many colors that came before.
Once, I lived here—a different life, ages ago, when I was as flesh and bone as any other daughter. I scan the damp terrain of what used to be the living room, and a sudden memory wells up in me. The old river. I wonder, will it come back? But, alas, it has since gone home to the sea. I remember laughter, like the sound of bells—was it ours? The neighborhood buzzing with children, the slap of jump rope, the bounce of leather ball. But before the memory can make sense of itself, it disintegrates.
I watch a wildcat creep along the blackberry bush down in the clearing below. A dead branch falls onto the decaying piano in the corner and clunks out a few low notes, like a wet cough. The creature startles and darts away into the grove of growing cypress trees. This house is sturdy underneath me. The bones of its steel foundation endure, the brick and concrete remain. The rest is reclaimed, transformed. Fallen trees are arms, bathtub and sinks are ponds where frogs lay their eggs, and the backyard becomes the front, the center, the expanding heart overrun with manzanita shrubs, the unruly heartbeat of this new age.
There must be a reason I’ve been called back here.
Imperceptibly, my armor begins to soften.