"Is that your house?"

We were seated under some trees in a dilapidated gazebo far from the road that had brought me. The house, as could be seen through stark trees, sat quietly, as did everything else on this mountain. All the windows were open, some with sheer, torn curtains blowing out onto the side of the house or onto balconies. Others, sheltering the heaviness of drapes hardly moving at all. The white paint was peeling and most of the bare wood that shone through, was splintered. The house appeared to be leaning, falling apart. Nonetheless, it sat majestically.

“May I see inside?” I was already on my feet in anticipation. I couldn’t breathe. “I won’t touch anything.” I could see on her face that she was hesitant and uncomfortable. She was old and frail. Her hair was long and the brown color long since faded around the creases in her face. She wore a tattered dress to her ankles, and didn’t appear to be cold though the season for visitors had since passed and we were headed into harsh days. She moved the hair from her face and held it there with thin bony fingers so the wind would not grab it again. She looked at me through cloudy blue eyes, and I could see that she had been beautiful once. And then she motioned for us to take a walk up the side of the mountain toward the house.

As we neared, I could see that the house was larger than I thought. At least three stories with a wrap-around porch up the wooden steps to the front door which was wide open. Some of the wood on the veranda had rotted but chairs were strewn here and there hugging the edge of the house, facing outward.

It was cold inside but she didn’t seem to mind. As we entered through the foyer, walking over the creaky wooden floors, a massive oak table stood in the middle of a grand room that could be seen through partially opened double pocket doors. The table was covered with papers and books. Here and there were candles set in heavy crystal bases on top of the menagerie, some partly burned, others with the wax melted down over the table top, papers and even over some of the books. The wax was thick in some places at least by an inch. It was evident that this was the only light in the grand room after sun set. The walls, bountifully stuffed to overflowing with rows and rows of wonderful, glorious books.

We found ourselves in a small room at the top of the stairs on the second floor. Old photographs with hard backs leaned-up against mirrors and bric-a-brac. I picked up one of the photos surprised to see a familiar face. But before I could say anything, I could feel an admonishing stare, as if to scold me for not keeping to my word, not to touch anything. Feeling like a child, I reluctantly replaced the photograph in its home on the dresser, leaning it against the beveled mirror from whence it came. The dust clearly indicated that things in this room, in this house, had not been moved in a very long time.

A couple of imperious looking cats scurried out of nowhere, chafed against my leg and looked up at me in full and complete recognition before darting out the open door. Did I see a slight grimace of a smile on the old lady’s face?

The room, though small, hardly big enough for a full size bed, included a high-back wood chair, a tall but narrow nightstand, and a small dresser. It had a balcony that was very large and overlooked the side of the mountain. I walked around the bed made up with silks and tassels, and held the velvet curtain to one side, stopping it from flapping about in the wind. The view took my breath away. Even though the trees had shed their leaves for the season, their branches canopied over the marshes, as far as the eye could see. I stood immobilized at the threshold looking over the expanse of it all. The sound of trickling water could be heard in muffled echoing tones, from somewhere oft in the distance. The air was pure and clean. A light mist of rain was beginning to fall, and for a moment I closed my eyes to listen and feel.

I love old things. Old furniture. Old houses. Old books. Old photographs. I love the look of them, the feel of them. The smell of them. Especially the smell of them on rainy days.

 

I had entered another time in a parallel universe, and I did not want to wake-up.

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