Her bungalow had a faded green exterior dotted with lime-colored shapes. Each form vaguely suggested an object that had been pressed against the facade for a period of time creating unintended stencils.
Upon entering through the front door, there was a single path carefully carved out between piles of decaying boxes, heaps of musty bags and mountains of dusty paperbacks. Furniture was stacked to the ceiling – a bureau on top of a dresser on top of an armoire whose drawers one could never reach so high. Each step along this overgrown trail of objects, however seemingly meaningless, reflected a moment in her lifetime.
It was a short and nonsensical passageway that began at the front door, led across the small living room, past a hallway, through the kitchen and out the back door where a Persimmon tree, once full of waxy orange fruits, and since devoured by screeching ravens, stood bare.
Months later, her house is now an empty shell whose contents have been scattered to unfamiliar people and places. I imagine the outlines of her bookshelves, framed pictures and furniture as ghostly drawings on her once pristine walls.