The Empty House

I made drawings. I guess it was something to do while the pain weighed on me. The drawings filled the time. Mostly I drew small scenes of farm houses or views of the Pacific. This would calm me. I would use only a number two pencil. Never an eraser. I hated the crumbly pink stuff left behind. I started in 1979 on May 3. I remember I wasn't doing anything of particular importance on that day. I sat down on the dining room floor and started with a single blade of grass in the lowest corner, just below the wall outlet. It took a year to cover the first room. Every square inch was filled with a flowing tapestry of scenes from my memory. The more I drew the lighter I felt. Every spare moment I spent drawing on ever surface of the house, until after ten years every last inch was filled. On that day I remember stepping away from the wall into the middle of the living room.

With nowhere left to draw I sat and waited for the house to grow dark.