Afolopa

It's been a long time since you've been home. And this isn't even home. This is [[their home. From a long time ago.]]

Your grandparents grew up here, their parents too. No one's been by for years, probably well over a decade. After the last one of them died there just didn't seem to be a point. All your grandparents kids, your parents your uncles and aunts, absolved themselves of responsibility. Like tossing the keys on the middle of the dining table, saying "whoever wants to go through it, feel free," and for [[whatever reasons]] no one ever went. Until you. Until now. [[But even you aren't really here - you're just passing through.]]

Sadness? Anger? Apathy? You'll never really know. Grief does strange things to people, brings old things to surface and pushes other things away. It makes it impossible to pick apart the strings of human connection - the resentments of arguments long past, the nostalgia of a childhood gone, the distance that grew the day they moved away. It all becomes one tidal wave of feeling, crashing over you and hurting those around you in its wake. Why did they not care? Why did no one visit? They'll never say. Maybe even they don't know. [[But it doesn't really matter either way. Gone is gone, whether that's people, time, or chances.]]

Your grandparents grew up here, their parents too. No one's been by for years, probably well over a decade. After the last one of them died there just didn't seem to be a point. All your grandparents kids, your parents your uncles and aunts, absolved themselves of responsibility. Like tossing the keys on the middle of the dining table, saying "whoever wants to go through it, feel free," and for whatever reasons no one ever went. Until you. Until now. [[But even you aren't really here - you're just passing through.]]

Your car chugs along unhappily. You turned the AC off hours ago to try and conserve gas. You can't tell if it's helping. The shadow of the pine trees falls over your windshield, bars of light and dark on your side as you rumble past them and turn into what was once a driveway. The gravel you remember helping lay down all those years ago has been washed away by who knows what. Cars, time, rain. It doesn't really matter. All that's left in the end is white dots of gravel wedged into the clay, dusted with orange of years of neglect in the red dirt. You thump the gear shift into park. You turn the keys and shove the steering column in that special way and pull your keys out. [[You shove the car door open and get out.]]

Cross country driving, sleeping in the car, a cooler full of soda and a picnic box of sandwiches your hotel alternative for the trip. You would be passing through Oklahoma anyway - why not? Maybe there will be some wood to salvage, at the least. Your car rumbles over the packed red dirt. You can see the pine trees from childhood vacations standing guard over the horizon ahead. If memory serves, you're nearly there. You only remember the stories your grandmother told you because you recounted them to someone else, and they asked weeks later if the story was true. They had to tell it to you again. Words you don't remember. Names that sound wrong in your voice. Your grandmother's voice failed her in her final months - the cancer pressing her brain stem, her tongue swollen and heavy in her mouth. She was no longer able to forget her own condition - no longer able to hide it, box it away and say [[she didn't remember saying she felt ill, so she must not be.]] [[So you keep driving.]]

Cross country driving, sleeping in the car, a cooler full of soda and a picnic box of sandwiches your hotel alternative for the trip. You would be passing through Oklahoma anyway - why not? Maybe there will be some wood to salvage, at the least. Your car rumbles over the packed red dirt. You can see the pine trees from childhood vacations standing guard over the horizon ahead. If memory serves, you're nearly there. You only remember the stories your grandmother told you because you recounted them to someone else, and they asked weeks later if the story was true. They had to tell it to you again. Words you don't remember. Names that sound wrong in your voice. Your grandmother's voice failed her in her final months - the cancer pressing her brain stem, her tongue swollen and heavy in her mouth. She was no longer able to forget her own condition - no longer able to hide it, box it away and say she didn't remember saying she felt ill, so she must not be. Your grandfather had said the same, up until the day he died. Even as he forgot the names of his children, as he forgot how to turn his truck down the lane to the farm, as he forgot himself and [[raised his own hand against his kin.]] [[So you keep driving.]]

Cross country driving, sleeping in the car, a cooler full of soda and a picnic box of sandwiches your hotel alternative for the trip. You would be passing through Oklahoma anyway - why not? Maybe there will be some wood to salvage, at the least. Your car rumbles over the packed red dirt. You can see the pine trees from childhood vacations standing guard over the horizon ahead. If memory serves, you're nearly there. You only remember the stories your grandmother told you because you recounted them to someone else, and they asked weeks later if the story was true. They had to tell it to you again. Words you don't remember. Names that sound wrong in your voice. Your grandmother's voice failed her in her final months - the cancer pressing her brain stem, her tongue swollen and heavy in her mouth. She was no longer able to forget her own condition - no longer able to hide it, box it away and say she didn't remember saying she felt ill, so she must not be. Your grandfather had said the same, up until the day he died. Even as he forgot the names of his children, as he forgot how to turn his truck down the lane to the farm, as he forgot himself and raised his own hand against his kin. No, memory is not something that serves your family well. [[So you keep driving.]]

You take it all in for a moment. The farmhouse isn't as imposing as you thought it would be. [[It's been a long time since you were here.]]

You take it all in for a moment. The farmhouse isn't as imposing as you thought it would be. It's been a long time since you were here. For all the people they used to cram in it for every family vacation, it really was very small, wasn't it? Looking back, the patio seemed bigger, the windows wider, the field outside more endless. Looking over the house now, it seems as if it shrunk over all those years of refused invitations. Smaller and more bent, just like it's matriarch. Given a few more years, it could've [[withered up and blown away alongside the husks of wintering milkweed.]] For all it's neglect, it doesn't look that bad. There's no broken castle walls with encroaching ivy. It's just an empty house. The windows are orange dusted from past windstorms, the decorate weathervane now gone. Likely lost in the roof tiles. You won't be climbing up there, though. You'd rather only bother with the ground level. The house key is already linked on to your car keychain. [[Go ahead and open it.]]

You look up at the sky above it all, wide and unending the special way it gets on long trips. Only once you've watched towns dwindle to nothing, and you've watched the country miles steadily rumble by for hours. It had been miles without seeing another car after the red splattered pick-up had finally turned off, taking their rattling horse trailer with them. Now it was just you and the country. Your cell reception has been spotty the whole drive. You haven't visited since you were old enough to have gotten your first phone, so you don't know if there's any out here. Your car is buried somehwere in the passenger seat. It doesn't matter. [[There's no one to call, anyhow.]]

You take it all in for a moment. The farmhouse isn't as imposing as you thought it would be. It's been a long time since you were here. For all the people they used to cram in it for every family vacation, it really was very small, wasn't it? Looking back, the patio seemed bigger, the windows wider, the field outside more endless. Looking over the house now, it seems as if it shrunk over all those years of refused invitations. Smaller and more bent, just like it's matriarch. Given a few more years, it could've withered up and blown away alongside the husks of wintering milkweed. For all it's neglect, it doesn't look that bad. There's no broken castle walls with encroaching ivy. It's just an empty house. The windows are orange dusted from past windstorms, the decorate weathervane now gone. Likely lost in the roof tiles. You won't be climbing up there, though. You'd rather only bother with the ground level. The house key is already linked on to your car keychain. [[Go ahead and open it.]]