When I was young, the rolling acres seemed never-ending against the forget-me-not horizon, and the modest, victorian-style manor felt stately and royal, like a palace. I recalled playing in the technicolor garden, violets in the air and grass stains on my tights. Feeding the sheep and goats, their fuzzy lips tickled my palm. Going on horseback rides along the ocean with my grandfather, salt tangled in my ashy hair.

I spent many summers there as a child. Whenever my mother felt stifled by my incessant needs, I visited my grandparents for a few weeks. As I grew older and became more capable of taking care of myself, the trips waned to once in a blue moon. It had been eight years since my last stay.

Returning was underwhelming.

Unlike the warm, dewy summers, fall in Newport was desaturated and still, making my grandparents’ oceanside residence appear foreboding. The white fence surrounding the property had faded to a cinder gray. The house’s exterior, once a vibrant yellow, was now sun-bleached and dulled with dirt and grime. Maple trees lined straight and neat on either side of the dusty road leading to the house, their old age showing with patchy autumn leaves and skeletal silhouettes. I was akin to them, spindly fingers gripping tight onto the last of their beauty as the winter threatened to strip them bare.

I’d once remembered this place having so much life, but Death had touched it since then. Fitting that I was spending my next few months here, as I’d also recently been touched by Death.