There’s something about an old, rotting, abandoned house that makes me think. There’s a message for humanity in there somewhere. But maybe not. Some won’t look any deeper at life than at what’s floating there on the surface. And then there are those who’ll neurotically analyze every event and symbol in the world, searching madly for a message of something bigger. I usually fall somewhere in the middle of the spectrum. But when it comes to these houses, I land at the far end with the rest of the thinkers.
I go out to where my grandma is buried when I’m in crisis or at a crossroads. On a comfortably cool, Texas December day, nearly a week before graduating college, I went out for a visit. After my usual tearful monologue about the state of my affairs, of which she already knows I’m sure, I left. It was probably out of a subconscious search for nostalgia that I decided to make the half mile trip up the winding road to where something else was dying. Continue reading