The Sanctity of Things
Last summer, I went to visit my sister, a successful Triad realtor. Nothing unusual there. Before we could commence our scheduled brunch, however, she had to meet a roofer for an inspection on a property she had under contract. “Just come with me. You’ll love the house. It’s totally you. It’s an old bungalow in a historic neighborhood.” Dear Reader, she knows me. How could I resist an old house? (Spoiler: I can’t.) As we drove, she told me more about it. It was an estate. The owner had passed away the previous year, and her children were selling her home. It had been unoccupied for eight months. When we pulled up in front of it, I loved it immediately. A procession of chipped concrete stairs led to a wide porch, complete with swing, chairs, and once verdant, but long-dead plants. As we walked in, I loved it more. All of her things were still in the house, a perfectly preserved picture of a life once lived. “Can I look around while you talk to the roofer?” “Sure....