Left Behind Our existence is but a bre if crack of light between two eternities of darkness -Vladimir Nabokov, 1947. Three years ago, my family and I moved to Erie, Michigan. Our old one story home was scooted up to a ranch style house built in the late 1960 s. Kay Luis lived there. She was an older woman, around the age of fifty, who welcomed anyone into her heart. About three months ago, Kay died of leukemia.
She left behind her house on Cambridge street in Trenton, Michigan. My grandparents, who now live in our old home, had become very close with Kay. Close enough, that Kay had left her home in the care of my grandma and grandpa. Because of their low income, my grandparents decided to sell Kays home. Before they put it up for sale, they let me tour the house that I had played in as a child. As soon as I walked in the front door, I realized that the home was kept exactly like Kay still lived there.
Walking from room to room, I noticed the house resembled the appearance, personality and the death of Kay herself. I stood in front of ninteen hundred and fifty- four Cambridge street, the small rectangular ranch home looked distant. I could make out a small indentation of the ancient lawn sprinkler. Both the left and right sides of the house were blanketed in vines which had hidden the damaged brick that lay underneath. Like Kay, the house was aged and the crevices were simpler to wrinkles. The creamy tan paint still shines through yet it is considerably faded.
Research Paper “The House I Live In”
History and Theory The House I Live In by Eugene Jarecki is a documentary film about the war on drugs in the United States. It raises many contemporary intercultural concerns about the issue, but first it would be important to explain what cultural groups it highlights. We would first think about diving the war on drugs between drug users and law enforcement, but after watching this movie we can ...
Above the porch, the original crystal clear glass windows acted as if they were the eyes of Kay. She would stand in her windows and watch the neighborhood events. Yet, a bright light seemed to shine from the top window, almost as if Kay was there and very much alive. Still hanging on the front door was a welcome sign Even now I felt welcome into her house. The first thing I did was lift her cookie jar lid, and indeed left inside was a batch of homemade chocolate chip cookies.
Kay knew that chocolate chip was my favorite kind of cookie. She always wanted to make people happy in the tiniest ways. It was ironic that there were cookies left in the jar. Then in each room there was a bed made up with the fluffiest pillows just in case she had an overnight guest. It is a shame, I do not think she ever did. Now, even after Kay is gone, her house is ready to welcome visitors.
As I walked through the house I began to notice the small nicks and scratched surface. The den had an older style organ sitting towards the edge. Molding had fallen off the bottom of the wall which left chipped paint on the retro orange carpet. I decided to look in the basement. When I did, I realized that a leaky drain had dripped ice cold water on the tile floor. A basket of laundry stood in front of the washer.
Kay hung her laundry out to dry, she could never afford a dryer. I used to help her fold it on occasion. Now though, I can only look at the empty hangers and cloths line, and remember the way Kay stood there with a smile always. Kays home, old and fragile, may die along with her.
Creamy tan in color, welcoming with cookies and pillows, yet faded and chipped. Kays house paints her way of life into the mends of everyone. At 75, 000 dollars, Kays house sold to a deserving well-off couple. After much scree tiny, my aunt and uncle decided the old ninteen six ranch would be fantastic with a baby on the way. They not only invested into the home but also the memories of our past neighbor will live.
