Page 31 of Scent to the Feral Cowboys

"Sure, you do, honey." His voice was gentle. "You're just afraid."

If he knew what his words meant to me… If he knew that the thing I was afraid to do was pursue the last idea I’d noted down on my phone… would he still push me forward?

While lost in thought,I’d roamed into the kitchen.

I didn’t like being in here these days. It was too bright, so jarringly happy.

Grandmother, who loved sitting in the sun more than just about anything—except for, maybe, Grandpa, me, and her bird collection—had kept it a sunny shade of yellow my entire life.

After clicking on the overhead light, I poured myself a glass of water, then wandered back out into the living room. Everything in this space had a story. The dark green sofa had caused the biggest fight I could ever remember my grandparents having. They’d ordered brown; the store had delivered green. Grandmother loved it. She called it a happy accident. Grandpa had a fit about how much they’d paid, and that they should get the right item. If I flipped over the left cushion, I could still see why the fight ended. A large stain they could never quite remove. Grandpa, gesturing emphatically, spilled coffee all over it during the argument. They’d both broken down laughing after that, since returning it was suddenly a moot point.

So, the dark green sofa stayed and later came the mismatched wingbacks in brown and gold. They’d somehow managed to find throw pillows with all three colors in their horrendous pattern. The brass floor lamp was a side-of-the-road treasure, spotted after having ice cream together on a random Wednesday. Grandpa shocked himself while rewiring it. My eyes landed on the mottled coffee table with its flock of sparrows. The realtor wanted me to move the birds, but I’d refused. Grandmother’s birds would stay in their rightful places until I was ready to pack them up.

There were dozens of them flying around the house.

Ceramic.

Metal.

Wood.

Antique.

Brand new.

The little blue bird Grandmother chose during bingo last month sprouted to mind. That bird would never roost in this house. That fact made my heart ache.

I walked slowly out into the hallway. I’d packed up all the personal things from in here before the realtor listed; the woman wouldn’t budge on that, saying the house’s entrance was the first impression. A family needed to immediately imagine themselves living in the home, putting their own photos on the walls and kicking off their own shoes.

But the dozens of framed photos were burned into my memory. Real outlines remained too, a result of sun fading the surrounding wallpaper just enough that a person who knew what to look for could easily spot them.

None had been artfully hung. There’d been no grand design. Anytime Grandpa or Grandmother had a new one they wanted to display; they just willy-nilly banged a nail into a free bit of wall. I closed my eyes, imagining the hall as it was three weeks ago.

A gold frame. My mother cradling me in the hospital. My father standing behind her.

Silver frame. A snapshot of me in my first tutu. Pink. I’d cried, because I wanted baby blue.

A worn, wood frame. First day of level fours.

White frame. Last day of level eights.

Silver again. Hugging my favorite teacher before leaving San Francisco.

And so many candid photos of us all over the years too. All the photos of Grandpa and Grandmother together without me had the same pose, same vibe. Grandmother staring at the camera while Grandpa looked at her with a boyish love that never changed, no matter how old they both got.

I parted my lashes wider, trying to see what could not truly be seen now. The living room still retained the shadow offamiliarity with birds and furniture.But here?My childhood had been erased.

The realtor had staged a mirror over the foyer table, its surface now bare. A generic runner hid one spot on the hardwoods that had faded from foot traffic. The wainscoting had been painted a bright, cheerful cream.

I climbed the stairs, my hand trailing along the banister that had been polished to a gleaming shine for potential buyers. The upstairs hallway felt hollow without Grandpa's book collection overfilling the built-in shelves.

“Clutter confuses buyers.”

“Personal things will take them out of the illusion we’re trying to build. That this is their future home, not your current one.”

“Let’s lose the bedding in here. That quilt is way past its best-buy date.”

That last bit had been about Grandmother’s starlight crossings quilt. She’d spent forever working on it. It had several holes now and needed deep cleaning, but I was scared to wash it.