The kettle's still warm if you want some. The dog will not move from that rug, but he'll open one eye when you sit. The lamp gets left on every night for whichever one of us comes down next.
You'll find the polaroids on the corkboard. Pick whichever one stops you. Write what you remember on the back. Pin it back up. Leave the lamp on.
Don't worry about being right about it. Nobody who comes down later will remember it the same way you did. That's the whole point of a family.
Each polaroid is a moment somebody in this family remembered enough to take a picture of. None of them have captions yet. The back of each one is blank.
it tells you whose hands the story has passed through, and what the next writer is leaning into.
The pull-chain still chimes when you click it on.
Mom paid eleven dollars for it at a Hartford estate sale in 1962. The man who sold it told her it'd been in the back of a closet since the war. She brought it home, plugged it in, and that night the kitchen looked different than it ever had.
It still does.
RELIC No. X TIFFANY STUDIOS · c. 1908 WISTERIA / DRAGONFLY PATTERN · LEADED GLASSDon't worry about being right. Don't worry about being kind. Write what you remember. Pin it back up. The next person who comes down will read it.
PICKLES · asleep since '14
Pickles has been on that chair for eleven years. She came home in '14 in the back of Becca's car after Becca picked her up from the shelter on her way through Indiana. Mom said she could stay one night.
She's been there every night since. She never goes upstairs. She waits for whichever one of us comes down to write the next caption — and she keeps the chair warm.
Pin your polaroid back up. Leave the kettle on the stove. Click the lamp off if you want — but mostly we leave it on. The next family member should be able to find their way in.
Pull up a chair · pick a polaroid