Sometimes when I'm cleaning my house or working in the garden or cooking, I think of the woman who used to live in our house. When I washed the walls before we painted, I thought that she would be happy if she knew we were taking care of her house. When I watched the tulips and daffodils poke through the hard dirt this past Spring, I wondered how long they had been there and pictured her planting the bulbs, hands covered in dirt. When I made my first roast chicken in the oven for our friends for dinner, I was sure Anna would be happy to know that her oven still worked after two years of no use (and again to know that her smoke dectors also still worked).
I even had some lofty idea of sending her some flowers this Spring from her garden. Maybe I should have.
Mrs. Pucci lived in our house for 41 years and raised her family there. When we tell neighbors we live in the Pucci's old house, they smile and sometimes tell us stories about Anna. Our trash cans still say Pucci and we still have the collection of every different size nail and screw you can imagine in the basement. I did throw out the ancient dried cilantro we found and the keys to the garage that was torm down before we moved in. And someday I hope to remove the safety rails from the bathroom and maybe figure out what to do with the blocks of lead in the basement.
I hope Mrs. Pucci would be happy to know that we love her old house and that a new family has come to call it home.
