by Bella Rum
The Realtor will be here later this morning to take photos and finalize a few things. I emailed her some of the outdoor photos of the house and yard that I’ve taken in the past year. Some of them are beautiful. The yard was at its peak, as it will be again in a week or so. We’re only waiting for everything to sprout. Tiny, green leaves are appearing everywhere. I hope she gets some good inside shots.
The ferns are hung, the grass got its first mowing of the season, and every inch of the interior has been decluttered. It almost looks like no one lives here. It reminds me of the neutron bomb. All signs of life have been annihilated, but the house remains for others to use as they will. It’s eerie.
It’s unnatural to remove your personality from your home.
It looks like aliens came down immediately after the house was cleaned, snatched the inhabitants and whisked them away for biological experimentation. The only thing needed to complete the picture would be a steaming cup of coffee in a plain white cup left on the kitchen table. The house is nondescript. It feels strange, but that’s what buyers and Realtors like. I hope all of our decluttering enables someone to imagine themselves sitting at their kitchen table, wearing their pink-flowered pajamas, sipping coffee from their world’s-greatest-mom mug, and eating toast with their favorite red raspberry jam. There’s certainly nothing to prevent them from inserting themselves into the picture.
We are clean, but there are no water droplets on the shower tiles; we are full, but there are no crumbs on the kitchen counters; we have slept, but there is not a tiny wrinkle on the freshly smoothed bedspread. We personify the soulless inhabitants of Stepford. Our Realtor will be pleased. So will a buyer be, I hope.
Oh, the office. It’s the only room that’s still personalized. I left the photos of the grands. I think the buyers can take it. Don’t know about the aliens.