I drive by this old house at least three times a week while bringing my daughter to school. A towering oak tree stands on the front lawn. Junk cars and rusty farm equipment litter the property. The air is brisk and the sky is a pale gray. No one sees me.
There are 2 No Trespassing signs and a Beware of Dog sign warning me to stay away. I do not care. With camera in hand I walk slowly up to the window.
Rumor has it the house belonged to a Russian immigrant who passed years ago. The heirs either couldn’t be located or didn’t agree what to do with the place. I can’t remember the story. So here it lies, forgotten in a field. Time passes.
The window is broken. I can see the massive limbs of the oak tree reflected in the glass. I hold my hand out and reach with my fingers toward the dirty curtain.
It is dark inside the house. I peer in with squinted eyes and clutch my camera tighter. I can’t see anything beyond the piles of furniture just beyond the window. It smells.
Suddenly I think of the No Trespassing sign. It is time to go.