How is it that I am doing things my way, yet I check if what I'm doing is okay with the inhabitants?
How is it that when I know I'm alone, I talk to the people in the house?
It's not Popeye... he's out here in the furnace house. This was where he spent most of his time... here and out on the farm, around the pond.
....Then there is the old "house in the yard" where long ago, enslaved people lived, loved and feared, and hoped, laughed and cried, worked and died. I often stand at the upstairs hall window at night and just listen... Imagine the little dark faces peering from their upstairs window at my house, and wonder what they thought.
It's not forever, of course, this I know. One day, probably sooner than later, Quarter Moon House will be gone. I don't know if mine will be the last tribe of humans to live here, but if I am...
I'm determined to absorb every bit of energy left here,
in the paint and dust and behind walls,
Recording my time as I add to it all, like a new spice in the stew.
If I'm not the last, of course I will leave it with more whispers and scents of my life.
How awesome is that?
