Isn’t it funny how the oddest things can set you off? A song. A smell.
A yard full of weeds.
Went to the house today to feed J’s cats while he’s gone. Placards all over the place announcing that the house I loved, the house I still love is an eyesore.
Because of the weeds.
Duh. I could have written the placard myself. But it’s not like I haven’t tried. Per instructions coming out of NYC, no less, I have gathered estimates, put together POs – to no avail. I guess if you’re out of state, it doesn’t really matter if the house someone loves is maintained.
Anyway, for your viewing pleasure:
That's the casita, back there behind the weeds.
First picture up is a view of the casita taken from the road that runs along the property. There are now so many weeds that the gravel road is nearly impassable. Guess it’s a good thing I don’t walk or drive over that way all that often. Still, when you stop to consider that the majority of the houses in this neighborhood are in the $700,000+ range, it’s kind of a shame that the place looks this bad. And once these weeds dry up – Whoosh. Can anyone say “fire hazard?”
Technically, there is only supposed to be ground cover here, as in HUGGING the ground.
This second picture shows the walkway up to the casita. Technically, the walkway is lined with flowers and ground cover. Nothing is meant to be higher than 3 inches. I’m 4’11,” and the weeds tower over me.
I walk that property and cry. I look at these pictures and cry. This house, this place, this compound was supposed to be J’s and my dream. It was supposed to be our start, our end – a place we’d die together. Instead, it reminds me of Sleeping Beauty and the Brambles that choke the life right out of the place.
I am much too old for fairy tales but no so old I’ve given up longing for a happy ending. The operative word here is “longing.” My longing does not equate to my “getting.”
It is out of my control. It’s up to the folks in NYC, and they obviously fail to appreciate the gravity of the situation – how such a beautiful, hopeful piece of land can be left just to rot. Decay in the summer sun.
I titled this Grief 2. It applies. Looking at these pictures fills me with unbearable, inconsolable:
Grief.
