Friday, April 8, 2011

Moving Day

All of our belongings were packed in bags and boxes in the yard.

It was time to go.

With a creaking of beams, the white-painted house reared and stood over us on its foundation. It was not our house. Not anymore. I suppose it was its own, if it was anyone's; the bank was welcome to try and catch it. It paused, then turned and shambled away.

Somehow, I didn't start to cry until I saw the Forrester's shiny new automobile with the parts special-ordered from all the way back East, come trotting by on the Wellsby's beat-up old nag.


The Words Crafter said...

ah, I love the alternate view of things here!

Scattercat said...

I almost called it "Repossessions," but then I realized that would work better for a ghost story somewhere.