Some houses carry too much sadness

Closed inside with the dust, antique furniture, old cat pee, and generations of artifacts was sadness. Sadness left to run its course scurrying across creaky wood floors through the cracks of ancient glass doors rattling white shutters flying up concrete stairs. Her brother died a year ago, and the huge apartment had been closed up since, but the decay stretched further back. When was the giant table that sat thirty moved out of the family house? When were some rooms closed off, the keepsakes of so many years stockpiled for posterity? Who lived here before this family that dominates the ancient, beautiful apartments of this old building? She had begun the long process of dismantling the family museum, painting, cleaning, clearing the immense house to rent it. The process is long, and the sadness a weight that presses upon a person the moment one enters the space. We carved out our sleeping space on old mattresses that lacked definition and I tried not give into my fear of ghosts. The bathroom light flickered and exploded leaving a burnt smell. By day we opened all the shutters to let the light in. Outside the world bustled, and the house sighed its thanks that some life was seeping in.