Some one closed on my grandfather's house today.
It never really occurred to me that some one would buy it. My grandfather built that house in the fifties. No one has ever lived in it but his family. He nailed each board into place. Made the doorway to the den really fucking narrow. And now some one else lives there.
Some one who is moving in right now (well maybe not right now as it is 11pm there). Who had already mowed the lawn this week.
In many ways this is the best case scenario. It sold quickly. It sold to some one who is going to live in it himself, and is excited about it. It wasn't sold to a commercial business that would tear it down which is what we always assumed would happen (since a trucking company bought seven of his lots over the past few years). It still stands. We can drive past it.
I don't think I ever will.
It's been four months he died. If mourning a grandparent time is like break up math (1 week for every month you were together), I have nearly seven years of mourning left to do.
That feels about right.