Doing Down the House

I glance over to the houses neighboring mine, the ones owned by Mrs. Landing and the Cunninghams. The mornings have been so lonely without the sight of Mrs. Landing tending to her flowers. Don’t even get me started on the evenings, too; no longer hearing the Cunningham children playing in their backyard is a tragedy. 

Both houses were sold to then be demolished. Same with the houses down the lane. Same with the houses the next street over. All for something unwanted. I’d call it unnecessary, but those men in suits would greatly argue otherwise. I will move as they demand, but I will certainly keep what's mine.

But before I get to the house, the yard needs to come up. Starting from the center, I rolled up the lawn. The layers of lush green grass and dirt spiral into a long, perfect tube; It ended up looking like a chocolate and pistachio Swiss roll. It unfortunately wanted to unfurl constantly. I ended up using a handful of lawn ornaments, namely my elegantly painted standing birdhouse and collection of plastic flamingos, to pin the layers together until it was finally stable. I think it deserves more of a poster holder than a cardboard box. 

I set my contained lawn into the back of the moving van. Now the only thing standing among the exposed topsoil was the apple tree. It was a pitiful little sapling when I bought it, but it’s grown so handsomely. It always produced too much, so I would pass them along to the neighbors. Many pies and strudels were made on behalf of this tree. But this year, it’s hardly produced any fruit. I can only promise the tree that we’ll be someplace new soon with people eager for fresh apples. 

I grab the tree by its base and pluck it out of the ground like a carrot or potato. I give it a good snap like a bedsheet, and it flattens out perfectly. I could place it in a poster holder like the yard; however, I do have a book my sister and I used to press flowers in. Maybe the apple tree would feel better among other plants? 

The flowers of old greet me with the faintest aromas as I flick through the pages. The names of many of these escape me, but I’m sure my sister could recount each one of these flawlessly. Once at an empty page, I gently feed the flattened tree onto a clean sheet of paper. I press the book closed and sit with it for a bit.  

I’m just delaying the inevitable. 

The fence is next. I suppose I could roll that up, too, but I don’t want to get my fingers caught in the holes. God forbid I get stuck and be the perfect meal for the world’s laziest spider. Can’t have that. The steel is wound into the typical diamond pattern, but as I think more about it, I could unwind… or better yet, unravel the fence. I ran to fetch my crochet hooks. 

With a bit of elbow grease and gumption, I undo the twists and bends in the fence. It's time-consuming, but it reminds me of those late Sunday evenings I spent with my mother, trying to learn this craft. I can hear her now, asking if I’m going to make a steel scarf or a titanium sweater with all this metal wiring. Something for Christmas, maybe. I need to call her. 

I eventually have it all separated; it looks like a bunch of metal spaghetti. I use the metal poles to spin the strands around like pasta twirling around a fork. Now I have perfectly movable bundles — into the van they go.

Up next, the garage. I remember Mrs. Landing told me of a time when a storm blew through and lifted her garage almost three streets away. Unfortunately, I don’t have the time to wait for a hurricane or a tornado. Flying my garage does sound appealing, but I don’t trust it to behave when left to its own devices. It would certainly have to be accompanied by its older sibling, the house; however, the house finds the sky quite contemptuous and prefers its foundation closer to the ground. I don’t disagree, but it unfortunately leaves me with one less option.

No, I think I’ll refold the garage. The six squares that make up the boxy shape of the structure should collapse fairly simply. One by one, the walls, ceiling, and concrete floor all stack on top of each other. At least in this state, it finally looked organized for once. This should get its own box. I might as well fold up the driveway and keep them together. One looks naked without the other, in my eyes. 

Alas, now I’ve finally come to the house itself. It’s unfortunately too big to fit in the van as is, I should know, I’ve measured twice. I think taking it apart from the attic down should be the best method to go with. But what should I use? I need something that can carve away sections entirely intact. The more I look at my cozy blue abode, the more it resembles a cake with white frosting embellishments. A cake knife should work!

I extend my father’s old ladder and reach up to the attic, slotting my cake knife underneath it. Just like with my wife, Hannah’s, birthday cake last month — take it nice and slow. I descend the steps and set it on the curb. Next comes our bedroom, all neat and organized as we like it. The guest room follows, and so does the reading nook. When I reassemble this, I should test out different configurations to get the best light for our little makeshift library. 

I’m very delicate with our knick-knack room. Too many valuable, fragile things from so many travels around the world. A brochure for our postponed trip to Paris slips out. All this nonsense has ruined too many of our plans already. I fold the page and slip it into my shirt pocket. 

Next are the exotic cheese parlor and the pool room, which is different from the billiards room. All three in nice uniform slices. The living room and the kitchen come willingly, but the den is proving to be very stubborn. It refuses to go without the chimney. If I let the den keep it and I wrap it up, that chimney is going to flail around anytime I run over a bump in the road. I have to be firm and not give in to any tantrums. I compress the chimney like a telescope and scoop up the rather dejected den.

Each room gets lovingly covered in bubble wrap, mostly to protect the windows, but more so the contents of one don’t spill into the other. Personally, I hate it when my knick-knacks get knocked into my nook. Eventually, my pace slows. The absence of a snarky yet sweet woman by my side is palpable. She’ll be waiting for me soon, so I shouldn’t dawdle. I end up stowing each of the rooms into the back of the van. They’re a handful but come together quite nicely.

Finally, I retrieve the plumbing leading from the foundation to the curb and the septic tank, which I stick in a garbage bag and blast it with a full can of lavender air freshener. Barely noticeable! Which just leaves me with the loose cables leading from my house to the electric pole; these aren’t mine, they're the city’s. With a wry smile, I take my cake knife and slice away the telephone pole’s shadow. It spent most of its time on my property anyway. I hand it to my shadow to hold onto.

I let out a sigh. A plot of land stripped bare stands before me, feeling incredibly cold. I can only imagine what the men in suits will do next. I know I have a new spot waiting for me with plenty of new neighbors to meet, but this was my spot. A home. A routine. A way of life I nestled neatly into. 

I had my first birthday away from home here. First time invited to a cookout. I even had my first panic attack and ambulance ride on the same day. That’s how I met Hannah. The first of many tears started sliding down my face. I didn’t think I would cry when I left my parents’ house, but I did. I thought I would get over that feeling when I moved again. I wipe my sleeve across my face. 

It’s time to go.