A home like this hangs on longer than the rest, metal roof to keep the worst weather out – and time takes hold, hard. I'm more used to abandoned buildings boarded, door and window, holes in the ceiling and floors collapsed from water draining down. But in this skeleton homestead, things have time to dry between storms, wind winding in through open ends. I can sense that swirling sighing, creaking of settling limbs on limbs. Missing siding peeling away, dry as snakeskin for the shedding. Like most old farmhouses, she's perched on just a high enough hill – and far enough from the treeline – to catch the last golden light. Falling in through bedroom windows, not a stick of furniture wall-to-wall. Not a spark of life for a good few decades, plaster crumbling from the lath in all corners . You can feel it down to now or never, and I don't suspect she'll be saved. But it's okay to let it go, hold the past as she dies in peace. Waist-high grass and no new crops in my lifetime at least, it's memories I'm tending here, and daydreams.
June 2, 2020
Annapolis County, Nova Scotia
Year 13, Day 4587 of my daily journal.