Instructions for Clearing the Estate

fiction

Clara, I am leaving the house to you, but you cannot simply call a junk removal service. This town does not work that way. If you toss the wrong things into a landfill, the resentment will just seep into the groundwater and come back up through your own taps. Clearing this house is a job of endurance, not a spring cleaning. Wear sturdy gloves and do not let yourself get sentimental; sentiment is just another form of debris. In the pantry, you will find a blue mason jar filled with coarse salt. This is your grandfather's temper from the summer of 1954. If you taste it, it tastes like copper and old shouting. Do not dump it in the kitchen sink, as that will make the pipes rattle for a month. Mix the salt into a five gallon bucket of rainwater. Stir it with a wooden slat until the crystals are completely dissolved. Pour the mixture into the drainage ditch at the edge of the property. Do it slowly, or the ground will spit it back at you. The heavy iron key on the mantel is the marriage your Aunt Martha tried to save. It is far too heavy for its size because of the weight of the failure. If you hold it for more than a few minutes, you will start feeling a desperate, misplaced need to apologize to strangers. Wrap the key in a piece of rough burlap. Bury it at the very bottom of the compost heap. The worms do not care about regret, and the heat of the decomposition will eventually break the emotional bond. There is a box of yellowed lace in the linen closet. That is the shame from the 1920s. It feels clammy to the touch, even in the height of July. Do not burn it; the smoke will make everyone in the house weep for three days straight. Instead, soak the lace in a solution of white vinegar and salt. Hang it on the line in the midday sun. Once it is bone dry and the yellow has faded to a stark white, you can toss it in the ordinary bin. The small brass clock gear on the bedside table represents the 'what if' regarding the move to the city. It vibrates if you place it near an open window. Wrap it tightly in aluminum foil to kill the frequency. Walk down to the creek and drop it into the deepest pool. Do not look back when you walk away, or you will spend the rest of the afternoon wondering if you should have chosen a different career. Lastly, the pile of damp wool in the cellar is the collective grief of the three generations of women who lived here. It never truly dries. Do not try to wash it. Simply move it, one handful at a time, to the edge of the woods and leave it for the moss to take. It is a tedious process, and your back will ache, but it is the only way to ensure the house is actually empty when you finally lock the door. Don't make a production out of this. It's just housework.