Three times in 24 hours I ride my bike to the house in Nantucket we long rented, loved, and recently lost, a house that now belongs to someone else. Approach-avoidance, can’t stay away, can’t bear to look. It is surrounded by mountains of weedy dirt and caution tape.
Two times I cycle by, scoping, sighing. Third time I notice the construction fence is open. Impulsive, I get off my bike and walk around the house. A man is there drinking coffee from a cardboard cup. He wears construction boots and canvas work pants. Hello, I say, because I figure what is the worst that can happen, he’ll tell me to leave, but he is friendly. My family and I rented this pace for twenty eight years, I say. I hope you don’t mind, but I am just so curious. In a rich Irish brogue he offers to take me inside and show me around.
I learn the new owners were also long-time renters of the house; that they, too, are sentimental fans. I learn when the construction crew dug into the basement to inspect the foundation they discovered the main supports were massive tree trunks, which were braced and retained. I learn that everything inside is unchanged and intact, including the faded fish frescos in the kitchen, which I never thought I’d see again except in my dreams. I learn the new owner’s name is Gary.
I learn that the details, the spirit and quirks of 1724 are being preserved. I learn our beloved house is not gone even though it’s not ours. I learn that I am okay with this.
My mantra on my bike ride home: thank you, Gary.