Today arrived with a lot of baggage.

The night before I called the realtor to schedule an appointment, I dreamt my daughter and I were living in my grandparents’ house which was supposed to be this house. Not a stretch since the reason I fell in love with this house was that it reminded me of my grandparents’ house. In the dream, some kind of Armageddon had happened, and people were just living out the days. There was nothing new. We just stayed in all the different rooms and used and ate what we already had, knowing everyone was doing the same.

The next day felt right for calling the realtor.

The last time I saw my grandmother, my father was helping her down the steps from the bedrooms upstairs. Her breathing was very labored. I hadn’t realized that she was that sick. She was totally self-absorbed in submitting to what she seemed to know– that this was her last time down those steps.

I was reading I Never Promised You a Rose Garden by Joanne Greenberg and stayed in the empty house until my father brought Grandma to the hospital and picked me up to take me back home. The girl in the book’s world was warped and unhealthy. Sitting in the living room alone, I felt my grandmother’s house had turned thick with the same atmosphere. The memories of the happy days I spent there as a child felt far away and surreal. I was a troubled teenager, reading a book about a mentally ill teenager living in a world she had made up, and my grandmother’s face was no longer looking at this world or me.

I will feel comfortable working with this realtor. She seems to be a sincere person who will help me. I know what I need to do at this stage of the process and will do it. I know what she will be able to do to help me move on.

I told her this whole sprucing up the property thing is putting lipstick on a corpse, because my house, to me, is dead. But if this is what I need to do to, as the Depends commercial says, “get back into life,” hand me the lip-liner.

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