“No one lives there any more, child. Don’t worry your sweet head over those that no longer exist. It’s just a farm house.”
So many years ago my grandfather told me not to worry. Yesterday he passed away. Today my grandmother handed me a ragged old book; a diary. It was wrapped in cellophane to keep it preserved. His last entry, she said, just days earlier. I did not dare open it while others were watching. I don’t know why, just a feeling I suppose.
Later that night, in the upstairs room my grandparents kept for me, I began to unwrap my gift. Off in the distance, through the open window, I could see the old farm house he whispered about, now just twenty years ago.
The crinkle of the paper irritated my senses and I quickly finished. The binding was tan with dark smudges where it had been opened several times. Inside, the first page read “The farm house across the field.” Why would grandfather write about a house he insisted was nothing of significant worry? I began reading about the house that sat a distance from my window and the longer I read, the colder it got. Was it my imagination that the air felt like ice?