Death does that

Decades, and many kilometers, and a house my grandchildren will never know, in another land. A detour on my itinerary. In my mind I can walk every room, see every furnishing long past; but have no knowledge of the house today. It took may family forty years to build, and so little time to vacate. Death does that.1

Long drive from the airport. Funny, driving on the wrong side of the road again. Slowing round the curve, I signal early to slow the cars behind in order to turn into the blind entrance. Stop in the breezeway, but not under the light where the swallows nest; don't need guano on the Hertz.2

House looks smaller after so many years, despite the additions the new owners have made. Cladding is still white. Which door to choose? Front door, that requires a 20 meter walk around the house? Side door? No Swiss cowbells there anymore; not very inviting. So, sliding glass kitchen door it is.3

No door bell. Never was. Any one home? I've come to see if the house is still a home. no one there, no access. A stroll won't be trasspass. I walk the long way round, where there is no path. Splitrail fence is no more. The garden full of rare swamp orchids, gone. The elm trees went decades ago, and the sapling oaks are thick in girth now. So am I.4

The front yard hasn't changed, all those ancient oaks covering the lawn. But the brook does not run. The water table fell when the area was "discovered". The livingroom picture window still looks out over the ancient oaks, and the lake beyond. But I know the ducks are gone, and the muskrats are gone. I bet no deer come any more. Ruins the view somehow.5

What's this? Where the brook bubbled up in front of the house there is a wooden decking. Attractive in its way, but artificial. I bet they sit here on a sunny morning and drink their coffee. 6

The TV mast still stands at the corner of the house, reaching out for so distant stations. Taller than the trees, but it drops no acorns for the squirrels to hide.7

It is still a house, remarkably unchanged in externalities. But only the residents caold tell me if it is still a home. But I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep; and drive the hertz away; and no backward glance.