Burgundy

Burgundy.

In these last few days that is what I have begun to call it, as if it is some grand estate with a name that flutters in the mouth, a dream, a memory of youth.

But it does seem to grow, as the day we shall leave it approaches.

The front lawn is familiar and modest, but green up to the terraces, with are lined with fiery red volcanic stone and full of pine bushes and coreopsis. On the walk to the driveway, one thing or another is in flower any time of year, accompanied by the buzzing and swarming of bees.

Upstairs, along with the lesser office and the bedrooms and bathroom belonging to my sister and me, there is my parents large room, with the walk in closet and the magnificent bath - all large and grey with big glass blocks letting light stream in, and a view of the little valley.

On the main floor there is the foyer, with shiny black marble floor. Then my dad's office with it's large mahogany desk and bookshelves and soundproof doors, the dining room with the table passed down from my great great aunt, the family room with the well loved red-brick fireplace and the silver moon set on the hearth - our marble topped hutch, antique cabinet, elegant wheat coloured sofas - the giant television that dominates a full corner of the room. The eating area that overlooks the yard through three giant windows - the kitchen itself, with dark marble countertops swirling with green and flecked with gold when the light hits them, the skylight through which one can see clouds rushing past, or the tops of the pine trees that stand in the yard.

The basement is filled by the warm little den, with the oldest furniture, the billiards room, the guest suite, the workout room, the music center... and it leads out onto the back porch,, covered a dry, with the jacuzzi, the party lights, the bar, the white swing, the table. The pool deck is beyond, with the water glowing with it's gentle blue in spring and summer and fall. The hill falls steeply beyond that, and is covered with ivy. And above, winding towards the top of the house, are the gardens - the bench, the birdhouse and bath, the periwinkle, the pines, the bradford pears which have such lovely white flowers in early spring, the screen porch with the hammock, and the deck, above all, where we set off fireworks on the fourth.

And it is, all of it, filled with the ghosts of eleven years. Not just any eleven years, either - eleven years that took me from an odd eight year old to my nineteen year old self. I can almost hear the clicking of two dachshund's nails as they run across the foyer and leap into the family room to wrestle, see the Barbie Hogwarts set up under the pool table, smell barbecue, roast, and stew cooking in the kitchen, feel the emotion of the countless dramas I've partaken in on the home computer, taste the salt of sweat and tears in my own bedroom.

But a house is just a house.

... Goodbye