The house watches the woman drive slowly towards the road, the back seat of her car is piled high with boxes and bags, obscuring her view, making her an even more cautious driver than usual, the house observes as she waits for a gap large enough for her to inch forward and drive away.
The house relaxes, would, if it could, breathe out, fall back onto its haunches, but instead, of course, it is still, quiet, thoughtful.
It lets its’ awareness, its’ sense of self roam around the house, move from room to room, note the emptiness, the silence after the hours of bumping and banging and the last few days of the woman moving around, taking all traces of the last caretakers away.
The house has been here before, seen this packing process happen again and again.
It finds these periods unsettling, worries about the new caretakers, wonders if they will be as careful as these last ones. It hopes they are, it has felt safe, nurtured over the last 40 years and has in its’ own way tried to repay this, tried to provide a sanctuary, kept them warm and safe even on the coldest winter nights.
It knows that it will have no choice in who moves here next, but, it has its’ own ways. It can make itself colder, darker, a shade less welcoming to those it distrusts, those it fears will not understands its’ needs and so far, it has never been wrong.
So, now, it waits, hopes for the best and although the woman was scrupulous in her closing of windows and doors, there is a draft, a breeze, it ruffles the remaining curtains, the ones left only on the front windows, left to preserve the houses’ sense of modesty, of decency and from nowhere or somewhere very well hidden, one and two and three and four and five and six yellowing, brittle newspaper cuttings flutter in this breeze and find themselves new places to wait, new places where they will be discovered.
The house is content and awaits its’ new life.