They would come to realize that the first three weeks in that old house would be longer than any years to come.
What do you do when you can’t stop thinking about something? Where do you put it? Where does it go? To the basement, you’ll see.
Mother, aging gray, and child, late-born, forty-five and five respectively, would come upon that house. That house, whether wanted or not, was special; a kind of special, which could not be removed, no matter how old or forgotten; and its ancient manifestation of fears still emanated from its heart. Each knock of a new family like a beat, pumping a thick stream of life giving liquid, coppery like the the pennies which burned their pockets.
Upon arrival the first thing witnessed by the mother, aging gray, was the yard and the graveyard behind it, although separated by fence, they failed to distinguish themselves from one another. Both overgrown and ancient. Mossy cracked cobblestone and the overwhelming smell of wood rot, drifting.
Once out of the car the boy was fascinated by the sights and smells, unaware of his mother’s ideas of the unsightly. He was new and deciding. A wanderer in his time, small and unknowing, but striving to become decided and to become part of the knowing.