The Persistence of Ruins

By Barbara Krasner

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White clapboards and wooden slats nailed across double windows peek through a veil of house-high ferns, maples, and elms. Leaves caress the places where shutters may once have been. Along the front in red and white reads a sign: Private Property No Trespassing. A vacant driveway sits to the south, marked off by a heavy chain, its endpoints hidden by foliage.  

Before this, an elderly man thought about turning the key in the lock to protect the home from vandals. He decided it made no difference. The house was empty of people and things, filled only with memories, most of which he wanted to do without.

Before this, the man’s son closed the door as he said goodbye to his parents. The son hoisted his army duffle over his shoulder and descended the wooden stairs, marveling at how two thin posts held up the porch cover. He thought about this house often in the jungles of Vietnam. He thought about the soft light of the living room lamps, the scent of his mother’s home-baked bread, moist-meat Thanksgiving turkey with crispy skin, and blueberry pie. He thought about this as he left the latrine one spring morning, before the sniper’s bullet hit him in the back and he fell forward into the soft, muddy earth.

Before this, a young sailor carried his bride across the threshold. They bought the house—brand-spanking new (they were the first residents)—from the developer’s widow. The GI Bill guaranteed his mortgage and his college education at the state university. He worked at the quarry and beamed at the birth of his son, whom they named Junior. She used the sewing machine she received as a wedding present, a hand-cranked black metal Singer, to make flowered curtains for the living room and kitchen. Sunflowers were her favorite.

Before this, a developer chose a spot of land with young maples and elms for a fairy-tale cottage he knew would appeal to newlyweds. He built the house with its bright yellow kitchen and master bedroom in the back, a dining room and parlor in the front in the summer of 1940. He added a small porch at the last minute. Folks always liked sitting on a porch after dinner with their smokes and coffees. He spent considerable time planning the bathroom and decided to install it in a hallway that led from front to back. But few newlyweds had the resources to buy it, and he was not willing to barter for cattle, chickens, or eggs. It still stood empty as the draft called up his number.