Christine and I moved into this small home in Buena Vista, Virginia, in 1952. It was our second home and we loved it. Not for how spacious it was, though it was snug. Our plot of land was surrounded by a thick reach of forest and threaded with small streams. We believed that when the sun rose every morning, our home got the first ray of sunshine in all of Virginia.

Christine was beautiful in a simple way and smart in understated ways and bore two children that everyone loved. We were fortunate that both married and stayed within our small Virginia community. If you met her, you would have loved her too. So, when she passed two years ago, she took my heart and my hope with her.

I felt it. Our children and grandchildren saw it. The neighbors sensed I was broken.

I was the only one who didn’t care about my welfare or the future, even with wonderful grandchildren. Taste left my mouth; the air soured. I stopped returning calls and making plans. At sixty-eight, I had been gutted and knew the wound would never heal.

My world became narrow, short, and contained just enough breathable air to get me through the day and keep Christine’s garden alive.

I had a lifetime of memories watching Christine give birth to that magic landscape of life.

Then, this morning the door to her closet started talking.

When it first happened, I was certain I hadn’t heard it. But of course, I had.

I needed to organize some of what remained of storage items from her bedroom closet to the basement. Other than that, I hadn’t opened her closet in lord knows how long. I just stood there, a half-open closet door. I didn’t know what to say or do or think.

I set the shoe boxes down and rested my arthritic back on the edge of our bed and considered the possibility that early-stage dementia would quickly rob me of my ability to grieve and claim what was left of my reality. I leaned forward as far as my sorry bones and outstretched arm could go, and with one finger pushed against the open door.

It moved maybe three or four inches. The hinges moaned.

We used to have a golden lab. Daisy was a wild animal that drove us both crazy with her frenzied antics and only made us love her more. Every once in a while she would jump up on my or Christine’s lap and bark what sounded like a few barely intelligible worlds. We wrapped our arms around her like she was a miracle child trying to break through her golden shed of hair. We talked back to her. She bark talked back to us. We adored her spirit and devotion.

When Christine’s door moved, it sounded like a scratchy whisper. It wasn’t Christine’s or Daisy’s voice, and it was too distant and garbled to understand. For now.

I got up from our bed and bent closer to the hinges that had come with the home.

I gave the door a weak push and the words were there in a fog of distance. I went into our kitchen and made myself a cup of coffee. Not the kind Christine liked. But what I liked, and she joked about saying, “I’m not going to lose a spoon in that toxic brew.”

“Okay, so you’re talking. And okay I hear you. I can live with that. Having someone else to talk to might be a good thing. Can’t be any worse off than I am now. Or worse than I will be next week or month or next year if I make it that far.”

I got up and went outside to an early spring morning with just enough chill in the air that you needed a jacket.

“So, we have to name you. I mean I wouldn’t tolerate strangers in my home. I’m old-fashioned that way and take pride in my cantankerous ways. I earned those ways, and I’m not giving them up for anything and certainly not a talking door.”

I aimlessly went through a few dozen names then realized the growl of a voice was a man’s. It wasn’t Christine’s or Daisy’s reaching out to me. And not even Norman’s, a squirrel that Christine had fallen in love with who came around every few days for scraps of food she kept in the refrigerator for just such occasions.

The rest of the day passed slowly, much like the day before. A few chores. Walking down to the stream. Kicking around some stones like old memories and a generous dose of feeling sorry for myself. Something that I only recently cared to admit.

A few hikers passed by on the other side of the stream. Young people hiking all over the countryside like Lewis and Clark. The last few years, more and more in kayaks and hikers out to see more of life than I ever imagined as I spent three decades working in the old General Electric facility an hour away that was shut down by foreign technology that made it as obsolete as I felt.

I was taken from my self-indulgence by a car honking up in front of our home. Then silence, then a few more indecisive honks. I made my way back up to the front of the house. A car was parked on the dirt road. Two people of my generation were waving. Probably needed directions. At least I can still place myself on earth with some assurance.

“Yes, good morning,” I said and moved toward them as they moved toward me.

“Good morning,” the man said. I guessed it was his wife at his side. “We knocked a few times and thought no one was home. My wife likes to honk the car horn. That was her idea,” he said as she threw him a loving smile. “This is your place?”

“It is indeed,” I answered, finally realizing they might be interested in the property.

“We live in North Carolina and are headed up to Pennsylvania to visit one of our children and newest grandchild and thought we would drop by and see if the house was still standing.”

“Standing as well as the day it was built,” I said, presuming the opinion of the original owners. “You want to come in?”

The woman hesitated. “No, this is fine from here. It looks just as I remembered.”

“Then you were the original owners?”

“Oh, no,” she admitted. “My father, Ethan, completed building your home exactly a hundred years ago to the day today. We took a side trip for sentimental reasons. I wanted to see it once more. He put more time and energy and love into this house than the other three he built around Buena Vista.”

“Christine, my wife, passed a few years back after we moved in over forty years ago. We were the second owners, and I can tell you your father’s handiwork is everywhere. Don’t think I spent more than a few hundred a year on repairs, and those are mostly for worn-out plumbing and a few shingles on the roof.”

“Yeah, he really loved this one. My mom always said he left a little piece of his heart here.”

I asked again if they wanted to come in. They said no, but the wife asked if I would mind if they walked around. Christine would’ve been proud of me for being so neighborly. I would have offered them coffee, but then they wouldn’t have made it back to their car.

They thanked me. We wished each other the best. I waved as their car passed behind a tall stand of birch.

I went into the kitchen, took another gulp of coffee, and walked back into our bedroom. I sat at the edge of our bed as I had earlier in the day.

I held the edge of the door and instead of being tentative, moved it back and forth until I got the feel within the span of a few inches.

“So, Ethan, your daughter just stopped by to say hello. But then you knew she was coming. Thanks for building our home. It’s wonderful, and I am here to stay, hopefully for another few decades, and welcome your company. Hopefully, we will have some wonderful conversations and become great friends before your home passes on to the next owner.”

I sat and pondered what had taken place and waited until I got the hang of moving the door back and forth in perfect rhythm.

Then I could hear Ethan clearly. 

Then I spoke.

Then he responded with a joke.

Then I laughed.

I talked about the neighbors, the woodlands, our Daisy, how much we loved what he built. I told him that his granddaughter just stopped by an hour ago. There was almost a sigh of relief.

I though he was crying.

He wanted to hear all about my wife and children as did I want to look back into the past of Buena Vista.

Ethan sounded equally delighted and I hoped he was as happy with his new friend as I was with mine.