The Hawthorn House stands proud; white shutters with panes of mercury glass shinning against the warm sun. The slop of the roof steep from ridge to base, meeting the ground in a flurry of wildflowers. So unruly they have taken the yard as well. Pinks and purples tossed in with droves of yellow. Why is it that most wildflowers are yellow, is it to convince that they are a gift from the sun itself? Maybe? Tiny specks of sunlight cascading through the green of a well-meant yard but long since forgotten with the weight of time and the weariness of hands and mind.

A chimney sits cold midway up the moss claimed shingle roof, a crack gracing the river rock that once held in the smoke of its inhabitance’s fire. The warmth that promised a safe winter and a comfortable autumn. Inside, the rooms all stand together, open like a palm to the receiver. Only rails to indicate this room or that, the lines of a hand showing what fate holds, if you believe in that sort of thing.

Tables, chairs, a well-worn sofa, rugs in every color faded to the same slight pastel. The walls are covered in panels stripped from the forest beyond and the floors of the same only larger, beefier. The loft is only accessible by ladder, a slim rickety thing made of willow branch twisted into stout rungs, covered in knobs, odd and out of place where leaves once where, pulled free before they could sprout into more branches. The air is warmer in the loft, stale almost, stagnate without the space to move around. But the window here is wide, making up for lost granger. It lets in sunlight, and starlight alike. Giving view in and out, and welcoming dreams whether wistful or imagined, perfect for the cotton stuffed mattress that fills the space with no regard for anything other than sleep.

There are no houses for miles and the moment I see it I know this is the house I will spend the inheritance Grandmama left. The one that without an executor would have fallen into the hands of her son. A man with no regards for what his mother would have wanted, leaving the money to be dumped into his many investments, driving his wealth even higher only to be lost and forgotten among the faceless companies and stocks.

But here, Grandmama will live on, she will find her afterlife in this forest, quiet and quaint. I will be her hands and feet and we will go on, two of the like, a single soul split among the dividing line of bodies. She and I will forever be tied by our love of nature and quiet.

One last walk over the estate and then Ester, the realtor unfolds the contract, lays it on the hood of her car and hands me a pen that mimics a fountain but under the façade is a basic ball point. The signage line invites me to say yes, to give Grandmama and me this gift. I do. Thank you Grandmama, my heart beats with the swoop of my signature, the pen draining ink quick and smooth under the pace of my hand. And it’s done.

Ester files the papers in her letter bound briefcase, tucks the pen away and hands me the key. It jangles with the passing of hands, the gold metal key clinking against the enamel painted hawthorn branch, bloomed with white flowers and red berries. Three sharp thorns reaching from the keychain in life like menace when my hand makes contact and I flinch. Ester takes the grimace as a sign of excitement bids me congrats and whisks away, her car bounding over the unkept drive in shock threatening speed.

I fondle the keychain letting the enamel thorns slide over my fingers like dangerous knives in a game of Nerve and smile. This is the beginning of the rest of my life. I imagine what the house will hold, what adventures, what dreams, what notions. Grab the bag from the back seat of my 1976 Toyota Land Cruiser, slam the door, slip the strap over my shoulder and face down the quaint door of the house. A bush with long thorns crowds the stoop like a weak homage to sleeping beauty’s thorn hedge and I ignore it, adding, “trim back the beast” to my mental list of “to do’s.” The door welcomes me with only a little resistance as the key’s teeth find purchase in the rusty lock and twists open. The smell of dust, slight rot and the sweetness of cedar flutters at my nose like moths escaping a long-forgotten closet.

Snatching the key from the lock the ornament catches the skin of my finger again and I curse, the bush guarding the entrance willfully snagging the hem of my dress as I sweep past into the house, I now call my home. I curse again and yank free, snapping my gaze to the bush. Hawthorn, I realize.