Toolshed

	My grandmother's death was followed swiftly by my grandfather's, proving once again that it is truly possible to die of a broken heart.
	The house they owned they had built themselves, back when Kansas was mostly cornfields; a picturesque neighborhood sprung up around them quickly. Various additions throughout the years gave the small home a mismatched, sewn-together feeling: the carpeted living room floor slanted up a good six inches on its way to the den, and the windows in the kitchen—originally designed so that my grandparents could gaze at the garden—now looked into a small, cramped workshop. While it was not the most extravagant of homes, it was certainly cozy, and made for many pleasant childhood memories.
	As arthritis and general old age descended upon my grandparents, the house fell into disrepair. No longer were there rows of tomatoes and potatoes and two types of onion in the back yard, for bending and digging hurt them so. The storm shelter was nearly unusable, meaning danger in tornado alley, but they were too weak to work on it. Near the end they hired a young man to do general repairs around the house, but that arrangement didn't last. Paint chipped, weeds flourished: the house aged and died with the couple that built it.
	I had known the house well. When my sister and I were too young to go to school, my grandparents watched us during the day. Even after we began first grade the bus would drop us off at our grandparents' house, where we would spend the few hours before our parents got off of work. As I grew older, I resented any time spent with my family (purely because that is what teenagers are wont to do, as according to popular television), and I refused to spend any further afternoons there. For a while we visited only on Christmas Day, and eventually never. My parents were never close to their parents.
	I hadn't been there in years, so when my mother volunteered us to help clean out the place, I was astonished. The house--the home that their hands had built--had been their pride and joy. Here they had lived, here they had loved. Here they had conceived, birthed, and raised their children. The dilapidated wreck I saw was nothing like I remembered.
	My first glimpse into the downfall came in the form of my grandmother's gossamer curtains, made of some mystical material not unlike spider's silk, drooping wearily in the front window. They were originally white and she had lovingly dyed them a delicate rose; now, after years of neglect, they were nearly falling apart. Hundreds of hours of daylight had taken their toll on the curtains. Some spots were still as pink as ever, but others had returned to their natural achromatic state—still others were in varying shades of sun-bleached limbo: salmon, lavender, carnation, seashell, cream.
	My grandfather's guitar had been abandoned in one corner. I felt a tinge of something—mourning? guilt?—as I unclasped the rusty locks. Being an accomplished musician, my grandfather would always write me a special song and sing it on my birthday. This tradition had only stopped when my visits did, even though later in life his hands refused to play for too long. The selfish romanticist in me thought that perhaps he continued writing me birthday songs, just in case. I imagined that the guitar would go to some anonymous uncle, one that had really cared for my grandfather, one that had really spent real time with him. I felt that I had better take it home with me.
	Next, I began delving into the innards of the small home, much like I used to explore their imagined jungle-pyramid-volcano rooms as a child. In their bedroom I examined musty clothing, strewn in careless piles on the floor of the closet or crumpled up in drawers. In one of these I discovered a diary of my grandmother's. The entries got less and less coherent as it went on, and at times I believe she realized it, because some entires were frantic and fearful. I kept the diary.
	The mantles and shelves in their home were covered in pictures of family members. Various yellowing pictures of my grandparents, parents, my aunts and uncles, cousins, and family friends were very carefully arranged, though dusty. There were many pictures of me and my sister as children, but, of course, none as adults. For the second time that day, I felt remorse. They loved me fervently although I never returned it. I would never have the chance to reconcile.
	We did not get much done that first day. Boxes were half-heartedly filled with knick-knacks wrapped in newspaper, but most of the time was spent silently reminiscing. Like I said, I kept the diary. I still have it. I didn't take the guitar, but I kept the notebooks that my grandfather wrote his compositions in. And I took one more thing: a small photograph of the three of us, me at about age seven, and them probably seventy-seven. I keep it on my beside table so I can look at it every night before bed, and every morning upon waking.
	I regret that I did not know them.
	I did not go to the funeral.