"Just do what you did before." She leaned closer, and I tilted my ear down towards her.
"Whatever you did, it was good!" She smiled and walked carefully away, her form frail and stooped, yet elegent. "You sure cleaned like a demon!" I heard her chuckle.
I nodded, still fascinated by the words coming from the mouth of this dear grandmother. Last time I was here, she used the phrase,". . . all that jazz," and just a little while ago, she called her computer a "darn thing," with exclamation marks.

I adjusted the brown ribbon of my apron and checked my watch. An hour and 30 minutes left, for this room, then one more. This was the smallest, I’d finish quickly.

Delicate, iridescent seashells rested on every space of counter, reflected in every mirror.
A pink and ivory Counch crouched in the corner of her curved tub.
Two brittle seahorses swung from a twined, silken cord and lightly brushed the door.
A ship wavered in a windy channel, time-caught within a wooden picture frame. Below it a lone starfish, strewn with necklaces of tiny, tiny shells, bristled from a cabinet top.
I half-expected the scents of salt spray and wet sand, but the room smelled instead of Lavander, fragrant Amber Rose, soap.

Dusting took it’s dreamy time.
I was the sea nymph, but who was this woman? a–not prim, but certaintly proper–old lady. Quiet, nice. But romantic? Apparently. . . Once, and still, a girl like me.

Every house has a person. And every person has a secret life. Or, a loud one. And every room has a story: telling of rich, intricate personality, or of a bland, shallow one. If you wait long enough and look deeply, you’ll find them out:
The essence of the who, the stories secretly waiting behind an open door.