We're at the beach for the holiday loooong weekend and I'm so happy about it. This place has been a true constant in my life, although since we cleaned it out last month for the renters it's strangely impersonal and not quite right. I know there's no old cedar chests to go spelunking through for dancing outfits circa the 1940's and no moth-ball-smelling closets to explore for other various fashionable pieces from days of yore. Now it's gutted to its bare house and furniture bones. Its character largely stripped and hauled away to thrift stores, the dump, and my mother's basement.
I still love it, but it's not the same. My arms feel a little wibbly wobbly about that. I have a hard time with change. Thank goodness there are some things about this place that will never change. Such as the way the house greets visitors with its distinct pleasantly musty smell. Or the friendly, but slightly alarming floral wallpaper in the bathroom. The sound of the waves rolling up on to the sand. And most eerily, the creaks from upstairs. There are many stories from everyone that visits about the presence of ghosts in this house. I know they're true. I'd come back to visit this place too. It's kind of nice being back at Gram and Grandpa's house with them together again. Until I think about it, and then I go back to feeling wibbly wobbly.
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