Not Yet Sold

There was an odd little moment in the middle of the packing-up of Cherished Friend's house.  Herself, Beloved Husband, Offspring the Third, another friend of Cherished Friend, and Cherished Friend himself were all sitting at a table in the garage, having a late lunch, when a minivan rolled up and parked in front of the house. Several individuals piled out. Two presented themselves to Cherished Friend as the individuals who have signed the contract to purchase the house, and asked whether they could show the house to the relatives with them.  OK then!

It was strange, listening to the snatches of conversation that floated out into the garage as the people moved through the house. Disquieting. Why? Difficult to put into words, really. Perhaps it's because the house is still Cherished Friend's, and that -- even though the house was completely bare of all personal items, with naught but a chair and a television set remaining -- it's intrusive for strangers to walk about inside. It runs afoul of the rituals of permanently leaving a domicile. One needs time to empty everything, to contemplate the time spent there, to say thank you and goodbye. 

Herself tiptoed as invisibly as possible into the kitchen to ensure the food leftovers were tidy and not off-putting to the people.  The people finished murmuring and moved towards the door, and one woman turned in the doorway to the kitchen and said to Herself, "It's a very nice home."  It was a very kind thing to say, a smoothing-over of the discomfort of her intrusion into a space that was not yet hers. Herself returned the kindness as best she could, acknowledging Cherished Friend's ownership and the woman's impending purchase: "It's been a good place for him. We're going to miss him, but we're glad that the house will be in good hands." 

Herself hopes the statement was accurate. She knows for certain that Cherished Friend is missed; she hopes that Cherished Friend will look back upon the house fondly, and that the house will be good to the next people, too.