Why is that picture askew?

What an odd word – why not just say “crooked” or “not straight”?

Because it’s not that. It’s askew.

And it’s askew on my wall.

You ever look up to see a picture, a painting, a map just – askew? Not level? Not how you left it?

It’s not like you bumped into it, unless you have a habit of bumping into walls like you’re jostling through a crowd.

Also, you haven’t dusted it for ages. Or, maybe you have – but I sure haven’t.

Maybe you just hung it wrong. And just haven’t noticed. And, for whatever reason, noticed in the middle of the night, when everything else has gone to bed and you can hear every noise in your home that you can never hear at any other time; a special sort of witching hour, filled with the whine of electricity and the staccato of hay chewing.

I didn’t hang it wrong, though.

Because I fix it, every blue moon, until it’s right.

Until I look up, and it’s again askew.

It’s not horror movie-tilted, but it is out of place.

And while I’m not a person who likes things out of places – despite how my work desk looks – I’m comforted by this.

Something out of place sometimes means there’s a place to be.

I think that’s something we all want.

When I was young, my grandma gave me a necklace. It was a sundial that I could unfold, twist, and hold to the east to figure out roughly what I could expect to see on a clock. I never did figure out how to get it to work, despite the clear instructions. It sure didn’t help that I lost it, either.

Until she died. And there it was, among her envious collection of adornments, and seemingly invisible to my relatives who were deciding what to honor the family matriarch by keeping, and which to give away, hopefully to become a treasure to a thankful stranger at a thrift shop.

It was so out of place. It shouldn’t have been there at all.

But it was, and it helped fill the absence I held in my heart since she passed.

I still can’t figure out how to get it to work, even though I found it, again impossibly, with its weathered and aged instructions.

I think it’s because it’s old, and when I hold it up, my longitude well researched and east a very easy direction to face, the dial is askew. It simply refuses to lay even.

That doesn’t matter, of course. I don’t need to know the time from the angle of the sun and the shadows it casts.

I just need to know my grandma is there with me every time I open it, to try again, and again be foiled.

Like this picture that wants to be askew.

It’s not the only one in the house that does this. So many things in my house tilt and dip.

You could say it’s a constant battle — a small war, so to speak, with the immutable law of gravity.

I’d say you’re wrong.

Things move for a reason. They get lost for a reason, and are found for a reason.

I can only assume the reason I found my necklace again is because my grandmother kept it when I lost it until my middle-school self could learn a bit more responsibility. And there, in a jewelry box, it gathered the proverbial dust until it found new life after her death.

I think it’s the same with my house.

We got the landlord special when we moved in; everything spray-painted white, gluing light switches and power outlets to the walls. A new-ish kitchen, missing screws in every hinge and light fixture. Insulation, nonexistent.

It was a lost home.

But we found it, and saw how a century-old home could live again.

We found the original hardwood under the shoddy carpet; the crayon drawing of some imaginary creature in the crawlspace; the haunted mirror that we will never touch, because, why would we want to court that sort of chaos?

And little by little, with every new coat of color, expensive replacements, and carefully-caulked corners, we’re bringing this house back to life; this home has a soul as much as any being, and staying true to its roots is breathing air back into its lungs.

It’s heart is beating again.

And every time it does, that picture becomes askew.