In Ruins

Echos in the Rubble

I have the gift of time.

I am grateful. When covid took my three jobs, I was already in my sixties and forming plans.

Those plans did not include shoveling snow. My children had made it clear that they would never want the monstrosity of the house in Vermont.

There were four levels of belongings to clear out. A bat infested attic, five bedrooms, a finished basement.

I purchased a cargo van. I purchased tiny bins to represent each room. This bin below is my entire kitchen collection. Can opener, paring knife, potato peeler, a fork, a spoon, sponge, dish washing soap.

I have a one burner stove and a pan.

The freedom is intoxicating. The new challenges are invigorating. Which direction should I turn at the next intersection? Where will I sleep tonight?

I follow my camera. My camera and my van and my right foot are solidly linked together. My brain is only marginally involved. I'm turning left on a rural road, my camera made this decision, my brain is surprised.

More often than not, my van stops itself in front of rural ruins. Why? Why do I find beauty and whispers in decay? Am I grasping at the stories, knowing that my own story will conclude in a few years?

Often, I imagine purchasing one of these properties, coaxing out their memories by candle light. Was there music? Weddings? The smell of fresh baked bread in that cafe?

Was there mourning? A loved one laying in wake? A child born in the bedroom?

The town of Encino, New Mexico is often on my route. The van pulls over and waits for me to step out. I wander every street. The town is deserted. I look at the foundations and roofs, two good gauges of stability. Can I buy the entire town? Are there other wanders like myself, charmed by the murmurs?

Are they watching me? Those long forgotten occupants. Are they watching me pick up the chips of blue china, placing them to resemble the shattered plate?

My van waits patiently, never rushing me. Nomads can't be rushed. I discovered abandoned mines a few months ago. It's hard to get good pictures of holes in the ground.

I hear, from your posts, that your lives are quite different from mine. I feel some of you a step behind me, shedding belongings, walking away.

Walking toward.