Two days before I came
home from my first semester of college, my grandmother moved out of
her house. The last time I was in her house was when I came home in
October. They had already put the house up for sale and were waiting
on a buyer. This is the house my mother and uncle grew up in, and the
one that I went to ever years twice a year—a week at Christmas and
two or three weeks in the summer—until we moved from the East Coast
to the Midwest, making the biannual plane trip unnecessary.
Today the moving truck
came and brought pieces of her furniture that she didn’t take with
her, and I'm rearranging what the movers left behind.
The furniture that she
mostly is stuff I've known her to have my entire life, even though
sometimes she and my mother and my uncle will talk about things as
"that new couch" or "no, the new chair, Mom."
Her favorite things, of course, moved in with her to her new
apartment—all except her porch furniture, made of wicker and
upholstered in a gaudy sort of watercolor floral pattern that we know
so well that we don't even notice anymore. This moved in to our
basement.
These are the cushions
I'm rearranging as we speak. And it's interesting, because these are
the most comfortable couches anyone has ever sat on, and if you lay
down on one, even for just a second, you're almost guaranteed to take
a half-an-hour nap. The little pillows, the ones you throw at the
ends of the couches, are all sewn up different places along the seams
because they've worn out. Most of the sewing was done by me, aged ten
or eleven, because mom didn’t want the chore and Grandma couldn't
see the needle well enough. I'm sitting on the love seat, and it
doesn't fit. There isn't enough room for these sofas and chairs to be
here comfortably, among the furniture my great aunt gave us when she
passed away when I was probably five. Things I grew up looking at in
my house near the East Coast. That, and the ratty old couch my mother
is trying to throw away, because my brother and his friends slept on
it one too many times, and it's full of old change and candy wrappers
and the smell of teenage boys.
My grandfather's desk is
now sitting in my room. It's made of blonde wood, it's got little
shelves built into it and this interesting-looking chair, and it's
probably from the late sixties. I never met my grandfather. He died
of cancer before I was born. He smoked too much. I wonder what he did
at that desk while he was alive. I wonder if anything I can do while
I sit there will be worthy of his memory, but the strange thing is
that I don't know the answer to that question. No one talks about my
grandfather much. Sometimes he seems like a great man and other times
it seems like he ruled with an iron fist.
It strikes me as
interesting that I'm the one rearranging all of this furniture. I'm
five foot two, probably a hundred and fifty pounds, and have never
been very strong. But my mom and brother are still at school, and my
brother has never had the same sort of sentimental attachment to
things like furniture.
I spent half an hour
trying to stay out of the movers' way. My uncle, who's
fifty-something and graying, with bad ankles and a bad back, did much
the same thing. We kept scurrying out of the doors the movers weren't
using. We stood on the lawn, which is strangely not covered in snow
yet, even though it's the middle of December, and we live in one of
the snowiest states in the country. Usually. We talked briefly about
college and grades, but mostly we just stood there, looking strange.
That's the kind of man my
uncle is, very quiet and awkward. He isn't really sure how to talk to
people unless he's trying to get something done. As soon as he turned
to the movers and started directing them, his quiet history teacher's
voice turned to something strong and authoritative. He isn't a
teacher now. He was enlisted in the Army for twenty-some years,
retired, and worked at a technology and computer company until two
years ago. He got laid off in the bad economy and he hasn't found
another job yet, although it's probably worth noting that he also
hasn't had the need to try very hard.
Still, around these
parts, my uncle has the authority. He's the one who bought our house.
He bought most of the appliances in it, he owns our cell phones, and
he bought us or lent us most of the other electronics we use from day
to day. And so it got me thinking about power, and about how people
who have it are often the people you'd be the least likely to
suspect. Take the idea of my uncle having ultimate power: he doesn't
live here, and my brother could win against him in a physical fight.
My mother is probably more intelligent, or at least has a quicker
wit. Both of them are around here much more often than he is. Yet, if
he were to make a decision or give an order, it would be followed
without question.
Me, I don't have the
power here. I'm not yet eighteen, I don't live here most of the time
now. I don't have a car, and my job is on hold while I'm at school. I
haven't been here for more than two or three nights since August. It
still feels like home, but I don't feel powerful here. I still feel
like a child.
I look at my
grandmother's furniture, scattered awkwardly in the open spaces in my
basement, looking out of place and like it wants to go back. Back to
the screened in three season porch that my grandmother used to sit on
to watch the thunderstorms. And I wonder if I'm like this
furniture—displaced. I wonder if people look at me here at home and
see that. I wonder if I'll someday emerge from a part of my
life—college, maybe, or my first real job—like a brand-new Ikea
arm chair, waiting to be taken home. No holes, no stains, bright
color.
Or if I'll be more like
my grandmother's porch sofa, comfortable and safe and filled with
memories, happily passed down to the next person who can enjoy it,
something too treasured to toss away.
