Ownership

micron 005 on paper

We relentlessly hang on to the Emma House–it’s in the small Kentucky town where all the rest of the family–-five generations–-have lived and died. Our house there is full of memories and stories: the row of daffodils our cousin Emma planted in 1907, the hiding place in the floor of Will’s room, the porch swing where we sang as children.

Being there is bittersweet. Wherever we look we’re reminded that everyone who came before us is gone. Still, my brother and I (living on opposite coasts) return here a few times a year.  When they can get away our grown children come, too. They pile in with guitars, laptops, Blackberrys, and college books, or bringing their own children to repeat the simple routines that have given us a sense of place and permanence.

We’re probably the last generation to be able to keep the house, but letting it go is not in the plan at the moment. With its wealth of history and memory and joy and loss, the truth is–-the house owns us.