Today's the day, the day that Fiorella sells her beloved house, but there is no other choice. Three thousand square feet is too big for her to maintain, and five-plus acres is too lonely. Besides, she wants to see her one and only grandchild more than a couple of times a year.
It's been hard to undress the house Fio herself designed sixteen years ago, to roll up the oriental carpets, empty the plenteous bookshelves, take down her paintings, pack up her literary efforts, store or toss her memorabilia, and strip the place of more furniture, day by day.
To strip the place bare of herself.
Will the new occupants value the rocks and the trees like Fiorella has? Will they respect the land and recognize the beauty of wilderness? Will they enjoy Fio's touches and even improve on them? Who knows?
Fiorella holds every one of the houses she has lived in close to her heart, starting with Stetler Avenue and followed by Proctor Avenue, two college dorm rooms, East Thirtieth, the house on the bend, North Oaks, Quail Creek, and Lost River. And now, she is moving on again. Pray for her.
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