When the electrician removed the old meter box (the original box from when Florence and Harold got power in the 1940′s) and put a new one on the south side of the house, it’s shadow stayed behind. I thought it so elegant, the snaking kite tail coming off the top and the detached finial at the bottom. Now a memory, someday to be painted over and forgotten completely.
I remembered this morning, when we went back to the old Bedlam Farm to get the cats and pick up a few more things from the house, how much I enjoyed sitting on the screened in porch in the warm weather. And how easily I forget what a delightful space it is when it gets too cold to use. I had already forgotten, and the last time I sat out there was probably less than a month ago. Just like how I forget what it feels like to be cold in the summer or hot in the winter.
We’ve only been in the new Bedlam Farm two days, and I’ve already forgotten what it feels like to be at the old Bedlam Farm. This is home now. And when we go back to the empty house where we lived just last week, our being there feels like a memory to me, like it’s no longer ours. Like the house is reclaiming itself, gathering itself for the next people who will live in it. It’s like the house no longer belongs to us, but to itself.
I guess my point is that we forget. That forgetting is a part of moving on. And maybe, what helps us to let go. And I don’t want to completely forget the past, but I also don’t want to live in my memories. I want to live in my new house in my new life and in every changing moment.