A house is not a home

 

The Realtor called this morning, mid coffee.  Someone wants to see my house.

So, I run about, getting the place ready for buyers, once again, once again….Start the vacuum, scare the piss out of the cats (they’ll never forgive me).  Dust and polish those floors.  Spray the covers with a little scent.  Hide all of those small things that might betray the fact that we lived here.  Straighten the broom closet, sweep up the cat crumbs.  A foreign neatness of sorts.  We slobs are not used to this.  Go and buy a nice plant to sit outside the front door.  Welcome, welcome.  They say a good idea is to put a pot of coffee on to simmer, before you slip quietly out the front door.  An enticing smell.  To some.  A tray of cookies, labelled “please help yourself”.

But, the last thing I do, I don’t know why, is to turn that vase of sunflowers just a little, to show its best side.  I move to clean up its fallen petals, then stop.  Leave them there.  Don’t you know it’s Van Gogh?

At least someone cared.

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