In honor of her spirit

Last year, while in Ireland, my niece-ster and I found an old abandoned farm house next to a stream in the countryside.  We pushed through the rusty harp-shaped gate and went in.  Crossing the threshhold took us into another world, a world that once belonged to an elderly woman.  Her dishes were in the cupboards, her clothing still hung in the old freestanding wardrobe, her bed was made, the curtains swayed softly in the cold damp breeze.  A frozen vignette, covered with deep dust, white mold, and decay.  

The clothing was dated, at least three decades old, the ceiling sagged down to the surface of the bed, the curtains were tattered and covered a broken window through which vines grew.  The kitchen was littered with old mail, shredded newspapers, mouse droppings and leaves blown in through the shattered windows.  Strangers had been here before us, leaving candy wrappers and spray-painted words on the walls.  But, in some deference to the old woman's spirit, her little home was largely untouched.

A poor person's altar was assembled on the fireplace mantle, complete with plastic roses, a rosary and holy water.  An eerie powdery mold covered every surface, revealing the years long stasis of the offerings.  It was profoundly moving and served as a respectful tribute to the woman who lived there.

I could not help but think that, if this little cottage had been in America, the altar would have been trashed, the words on the wall would have been profane, and the litter would have been beer cans and needles.