For Sale_ This Old House

[Van Canna]

I open that window: the first thing that hits me is the absence of an ancient wall across the way; it was my clock. In the summer the sun at 8 AM would shine the very top, at ten AM it would light up half the wall, and at 12 noon, all the wall was bright.

From that wall I also knew of the seasons. In the winter all muddy humid and black_in the spring beautiful flowers would emerge, long green leaves, and a world of insects.
In the summer a squalor arid and white, in the fall after the first rains it would cover with moss and random red little flowers with nascent grass...

All vanished, in its place a new house, tall white, glaring, impeding the sight above and beyond.

I look into the street below: the hour is late, the breeze of great dusk begins to cool the evening, but nobody, not even a child appears on the lonesome street.

All is vanished, and I have remained alone, in this house in this street.

Sweet and sad memories of my past. From this window I look at the sky of my youth and thru the falling dusk at infinity read of the blessed events of those golden years as written in silver across a fiery sunset.

[Van Canna]

Growing up in my beloved old house, I recall how all family members would express their strongest attachment to the house underlining the importance that it should always remain in possession of the family throughout the future.

And that this possession is also of great validity for younger generations... as for all the family present and future, the house appears to create a single unity to which all feel a deep belonging.

They would say ‘we all grew up together with this house’…

And I as a boy, every time I left for some trip with my parents, I would immediately feel nostalgic just as I got into the train car and sat down.

On the way out of the station, the train would pass by the house on the garden side, and I would quickly feel an immense sadness. The large garden windows curled into deep frown sensing a betrayal in the making.

It was as if I knew even at that young age, that someday it would all come to pass, that I would have to abandon that old refuge of the heart...and that I would have to see my beloved mother break down in uncontrollable fits of crying.

[Van Canna]

Portraits, painted by ambulant artists, of the old aunts and uncles and great, parents from which my father inherited the house, hang on the walls of the first floor below, together with many great photographs of other ancestors.

These were recognized by the older generation still living, and partly by the second generation that even not having met them personally, could name each and everyone of them.So this way you can say that they are part of the collective memory of the family.

Same you can say of the majority of antique pieces of furniture and of utensils that one of the living aunts had placed on the first floor and that it was so well appreciated by other family members.

Every item has its story and each one is given great importance and vigor, as part of communal family patrimony beyond precious value as antiques. Many of these combinations of old things, reside and populate the nightly dreams I have always had of this magical old place.

[Van Canna]

There are so many ‘hidden chapters’ in this old house…so much that have seen, lived, and suffered within those walls, that if they could only talk, the strangest of the stories they would tell...

I was not the only one to ever dream of that very dear and mysterious family residence. My dearest friend John, who lived across the street, had spent lots of time visiting the house to play soccer or just hang out.

Later in life, he had said “ I dreamed that beautiful old house even last night” knowing I was on the way to visit him the next day.

On another occasion he had confessed that he dreams that old house almost every night. He sees in is dreams the house with very old furniture and inhabited by my ancestors.

But mostly he dreams of the room that was really his favorite, on the first floor where we had the ‘radio room’ …an iron stove…my father’s wall library, an old radio console


a sofa that allowed him to sit down, listen to beautiful old songs, and sing along with the singer.

John was himself a very good singer who would always start to sing when he came to visit , bringing a little happiness to the house even in its bleak moments. John could also play the harmonica in melodious ways.

My old house had two very large floors, a roof top encircled by walls waist height, from where you could play or watch the train station across the way beyond the garden, and also it had a storage attic area where my parents would keep fruit and vegetables.

So many times as a child I would go on the roof to play or just sit and watch and listen to the locomotives steaming in and out of the station.

From the roof top I could also hear the daughters of rich neighbors play the piano..such beautiful music.

When up on the roof with John, we would talk about his paternal house in a town nearby before it was totally destroyed by the bombardment of the war.

John loved to recount in detail his old house, the old kitchen, the stairs leading up the front entrance, the wooden floors, the windows that were so large and airy.

He remembered his house very open and full of life, people coming and going, friends of his father always welcome, and always offered something to eat…very much like my old house…and a good reason why he loved to visit me so very often.

[Van Canna]

But now only the cold wind swept through the empty rooms, ruffled the cobwebs hanging in the corners with its icy fingers, lifted the accumulated dust everywhere. Over all the melodic sound of a music box in the night.

[Van Canna]

“Mother, mother, are you there?”

The kitchen is in order and no noise disturbs the peaceful quiet of the house, napping in the summer afternoon.

A mournful locomotive whistle in the distance, in gratitude for my love of trains.

The curtain hanging on the open door softly flutters at every occasional sighs of a light breeze.

From the adjacent railway station side, the glint of the tracks and the lonesome garden once vibrant of family happiness.

Not even a stray cloud in that sky so turquoise and so near so as to hear its sighs.

I ran up the stairs that connected to the main floor. Almost caressing it, I knocked lightly on the bedroom door, receiving no answer.

Resting my hand on its handle, and with apprehension, holding my breath i cracks it open.

A familiar and forgotten smell of violets _envelops me. It is the scent of my mother, her essence.

The sweet fragrance I felt when as a child, attached to her bosom, I would find the strength to overcome my fears and, in losing myself into that motherly intimate warmth, I escaped the doubts of my future.

Or when half asleep, I would feel myself in her arms being held tight and rocked with love.

Or when as a grown man, I would catch the fragrance suspended in the air surrounding me , while watching her outside the door, under the shady tree with distant eyes lost on an undetermined point in infinity.

She was so intent in observing a distant time _ or maybe in chasing a vanished dream that she wouldn’t notice me.

Only when a furtive and inopportune tear would quickly run down a cheek _ leaving a humid trace on her wrinkled face, she would shake aware of the present, and with a trembling hand, blotting it dry, in apprehension of being caught in that moment of weakness.

I push the door completely open, the window curtains lightly fill, the room is immersed in an unreal silence.

The bed has been made, and my own face _ young and filled with emotion in the day of my college graduation, smiles from the photograph on the old dresser.

‘Mother’? It is more of a whisper that comes out of my lips spontaneously …than a call for her.

Even the bedroom like the rest of the house is empty. I am feeling desperate while closing the door behind my shoulders.

In that penumbra of the corridor, I become aware of a small blade of light filtering from above between the doors leading to the attic.

With my galloping heart from the emotions of the moment,I climb the few steps that separate me from the loved figure of my mom.

She does not become aware of my presence, she is bent over and going through and old trunk of memories, her fine hands clutching Rosary beads...

A timid sun ray intrudes upon the suffused darkness of the attic. In its tail, dance imperceptible specs of dust, impalpable entities playing at chasing one another and rocking on miniscule rainbows.

Suddenly she straightens up and steps to the frail ‘body’ of a dress; I not recalling ever _having seen her wear.

It is a white dress with small bouquets of delicate flowers shaded of yellow and orange, the same colors of those wonderful sunsets often witnessed, sitting on the sandy beach not far from the house with the summer evening wind caressing my sweaty young body.

I held My breath while my mom , trudging to a long mirror stained by the years and covered with dust, becomes resplendent in a sun ray streaking through the attic.

Lilly, the old house cat, approaches me with joy, rolling on the floor and rubbing the little humid nose and tail against my legs.

I smile advancing towards that lovely figure:

“ Mother: finally” I blurts out …while my eyes light up with joy and my arms reach out to embrace that tired and adored figure.

She turns around…in her face _ an expression relaxed and appeased…the eyes shining and tears as star drops.

A light gust of the summer wind…a sigh…and it's all in the vanishing.

And on your anniversary of your death, dear mother, I still remember your lullaby songs and your rocking me to sleep so gently. I love you mom.