Besides lashings of paint and the occasional fixed pane of glass, there had not been much I had to do to it. On the contrary, I had been more then pleased to keep the attic full with rumbling forgotten junk and the shed packed with rusty out dated implements. I spent my time between writing articles for magazines roaming the country side in search of articles that I felt fitting for my new home. It became quite a passion, instinctively I would see a dresser or a vanity mirror and just know it belonged. Excited I would pay any price, haul the item home and feel so content as I watched it slide into place, snugly and complete in it's position, decor and utility.
Such a spinster passion kept me locked away from the locals, but I liked that. I felt no need to share my private homely existence with any other. Just myself, for I feared nobody else would understand. That they would not know of the warm drafts the wafted around my bare feet as I walked the empty floor boards. Or the calm that flowed over me every time my head touched the pillow. I was home, that was all that mattered to me. When I walked through that door, all weight of the day was gone. I could read a book, play some piano or just sit at the porch, sipping fresh lemonade and watching the sun go down. The upright piano had been quite a find, as soon as I saw it, I knew I had to have it. Sure the price was stiff and I had not played since those days my momma forced me to practice, practice, practice. It had played dull and void in the shop, but as soon as it slid into place in the living room, well it's keys were crisp and it's fine notes so sharp it belied any need for tuning. Alone I would play, silent soft music, that seemed to sing solely to me. So fluid and concealed, I could not name a single lyric to such music but it was a joy alone to play it.
So that was me, the mad old spinster, sure I was only 42, but it seemed the general agreement around town. I did not mind, I had come here to escape a bad divorce and a far worse family life. It was more then satisfactory to know not a single person would come knocking, nor unwanted friend ring untimely on the phone I had never bothered connecting. It was my calm lonely life, one of written words and forgetful hours. My kindest years I felt. A reward for having been such a good girl for so long. I never felt alone, just whole and alive. The house surrounded me with more love then any man could muster.
When I slept, I slept till I woke, snuggled by my warm bed, so quiet in the night, my sleep was deep and firm, my dreams, a special world my previous life had never allowed me to ever touch before. Now it was my world, sweet love, a sweet hold. It seemed to just drift away every waking moment, no matter how real it was in the twighlight of slumber. In sleep I lived so young and joyful, this, spirit of such moments enraptured me through the wearing days, through which I strained knowing it would be there the moment my head hit the pillow.
It all seemed so serene, till one dark forboding night, awoken so slight, I lay there, feeling quite unalone, deep I listened, to what, music was my answer. It saturated my room with contemplation that tingled me to my fingertips, so slight, so real. Some where, in my house, somebody was playing the piano. Naked I crept out of bed, to wrap myself in my silk robe, to step across the floor, so quiet and fearless. I really only wondered who would do such a thing. Closer a came, till around the corner spiralled that same haunting music that I was compelled to play every time my hands ran across the keys.
It was such a temptation to walk around the corner. Like sitting on a canoe wearing a blindfold, hearing rapids and not knowing which way to paddle. I stood there, listened. So sweet it played, an ageless tune that reverberated up my spine. Shivers ran through me as I stood at the corner, my hands grasping the smooth redwood door frame, anxious like a cloud of heart fluff. Tingles, soft hard breathe, warm creeping within, the works. Slowly like a vine, I crept around, hoping to catch a glimpse of an angel, but fearing a break and enter devil.
In a flicker I peeked, my eyes broke, upon emptiness. Like a wind the music stopped. A breeze rolled out and left me feeling like a clown. Had I heard anything or was this just a symptom of a lonely old woman spent by life, holding on to sickly music that ran like sweet venom through my mind. The bare naked keyboard crashed upon me like a cold steel avalanche, driving me to my knees. So torn was I in discomfort to find the piano unmanned. I must have laid there for an hour in silence. Collapsed upon the silent stage of my life, I tried to hang on, a desperate grasp at a forgettable moment. So disrupted in my calm, the disreputable charm of a pilgrim lost on a religious journey in the wilderness. All the signs were there, but there was no deliverance.
From my crumpled splendour I arose back to my feet to drag myself to my cold forsaken bed. Where I lay enslaved within mortal grace, clinging to shreds of sonic desire. How dare he leave me, I knew that no woman could play with such lust. I fell to sleep quite unsatisfied, bleeding within my womb but with nothing to consume.
The next day I was so withered and old. It all crept into me, like a forbidden worm, hungry and anxious for my very soul. To be filled with a saving grace, so distilled was I in my disgrace. The world screamed at me to take a companion for life, yet I yelled back none, never and a day. Everlasting I felt, everlasting I knew.
I am not one of those people to be scared by slight whimsical experience, but after that I never slept in comfort again, so distracted was I by the voices that bled at me at night. Cool voices that spoke of love and issues. Never really anything, no space, no time, all demand, nothing that was kind. So much want, so little need, it screamed at me, so wanton and unseen. So driven and tired, one day I awoke.
Barefooted once again I treaded along my floor boards, the cold hard wooden panels upon my well worn soles. Never the same was I, no, not again, it screamed within me, such need that sheded my lame selfish desire for another's love. No point, just a dire need to couple. Those tears I shed over sad still footsteps were unbelievable, overwhelmingly so, they almost made me think that some body else believed in me.
It was such a beautiful feeling, I would stay crunched in my fortress of simplicity, my forlorn deliverance enraptured in the slight ornamental moment of a torturous desire. Staring at the keyboard, it was like a corpse, laying there, I was too scared to touch it, even looking at it's empty grace caused me to bleed stronger tears. I hated it here, alone, I could only stand on vibrating legs and walk alone through my house of such hidden dimensions. Rising up the stairs, creaking and stuttering, I rose to the dusty attic, the glum glow of the bulb casts shadows that fractured the space all around me. It is warm, stale and oppressive. The junk that surrounds me I have barely touched since first taking the house as my own.
A grimy oil land shakes empty in my hands, some old news papers, 1915, a busy year. Moth eaten blankets, cases of records, a trumpeted phonograph to play them on, a chest it all sits on. Worn it is, thrown in a corner to be left alone. I pull it out, a musty smell, frightening, anything could be inside, there is no reason but my tempted fear not to open it. So I do what killed the cat, thumb the coarse rusty latch and push it open with a yearning.
Inside I find clothes, old and slim, well worn by age and the marks and repairs some one has left on them. I pull them out and lay them on the floor, not big, no, just a boy, a teen. Yet I know he was born long before me. I search further, till I come across an old tin cookie box, it rattles, opens and reveals a load of pictures. These I do look at, for they are of my house, with people of the past, and old woman, stern man and a goofy lanky kid. Nothing much to be surprised at, till like a shiver, I realise.
It is not just my house, it is my home. The same piano, chairs, clutter I collected. It is all there. With every turn I feel so sure, it looks the same now as it did back then. It is the same, some how I have restored it, in a way I just don't know. I look further into the tin, to find a yellow crispy news paper article, so carefully trimmed it sits in the bottom. I read it, so sad, it tells of an accidental death, in this house, of a 16 year old boy. Shot by accident, by a loaded gun, a quick death, but horrible for all.
I take a single picture, of the boy, with me and walk away, close the door. In my room I lay alone, my lamp so much brighter then the bulb in the attic. The boy sits in my palms, I look at him, he looks so proud. A strength sits in the paper, as he stands there with a cocky smile and a twinkle in his eyes. Such a laugh he would have had, it would have been something special. I cry again, but this time not in confusion, but in pain, for a life that was called so short. Against my pillow, I snap off the light and fall asleep. So calm now, feeling once again complete.
A whisper of wind wakes me to creaking footsteps across my floor. It is muffled by the rug that no doubt had seen that floor before I brought it. My eyes awake in moonlight, but I see nothing just as I feared, but I know I am not alone. I feel him standing there looking at me. I feel how much he wants to touch me, inside I know how much I want to be touched. I pull back the covers, letting my head fall back, eyes closed and breathing in the cold air with a shudder.
With a rustle, warmth surrounded me with the wisp of a hand on my hard nipple, like dew, a ghostly mouth nibbled it, setting free a moan, so sincere I let his embrace take my, withering all around me. He spread my legs, washing up my inner thighs with a rush that sheded sheer passion up my spine. I screamed such ecstatic love as he drove into my, so far I peaked and was rocked so tenderly by his iron hold. He never let me loose a second, so taken by him I, so alive within the desire death had rubbed so raw. He filled me more full then any man ever had or would. Such longing I road on orgasmic waves of pure joy. One after another, flowing into my very blood, my bones reverberated, I screamed to god and beyond, the bed rocking and grinding as we made such strong love.
With a kiss and a snicker that I had seen in that picture, he pulled away and left me so spent. I snuggled up alone in an old bed, knowing that in this house I would never be alone again. As I drifted off to sleep, I heard a distant piano play a lullaby just for me.