The Olson House

With her brother Alvaro she did her best to keep the old house in working order, dragging her body to carry out the routines of giving the place a woman’s touch. Each room knew the sound of her dragging, each board in the wooden floors the feel of her weight. Each room was also aware of the stranger who seemed like a shadow* wandering from room to room peering out of windows, looking for images of different landscapes that surrounded the house. Like a queen exiled from her womanhood without shame or bitterness, she was denied the privilege of a normal life and woman. When she died, the house surrendered its heart and gave it to a plot of earth in a nearby field. There in her little room Christina Olson sleeps in her disfigured body no longer burdened with daily chores, no longer the object of him who painted her into a work of art none of us will ever be.