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I know just where this picture should go." The new ones will say that. Holding it up and standing back. Taking ownership of sorts for a while.
I know too. The frame of the room would have always set where pictures went. The frame of fireplace and door and window. The bed would always have been in the same place--opposite the mantle.
The brickie is singing outside. Knows the words and all the whining and strained nuances of the pop songs on the radio he brings with him.
All those background noises would have changed of course. Some of the old 78s in the old wardrobe were Charleston jazz and Caruso. Bing Crosby later. There's a turntable from the seventies, a wedding gift from Mum that's found its way back here.
Grandma more or less died in this room. "Sinking," she always said after she lost her legs in the accident. First one, then the other went. Pop got a bang on the head but it seemed to cheer him up if anything. Mum stayed on, eventually alone for a few years. The place has been dusty with the layers of furniture and bric-a-brac. But homely.
The earth has travelled billions of miles in eighty-six years but the sun hits the walls in this room the same way on its annual range through winter and summer. And it's always hit these ...
Source: HighBeam Research, Renovation.(Brief Article)(Fiction)