The first feature I see as I walk into the kitchen is the
old cabinets. The hardware is different – original latches painted white
instead of the bronze-toned window latches J installed to keep ours closed. The
cabinets are slightly askew and the shelves are dusty and dirty.
I turn to my left and see my old sink. A double instead of a
single, but it is the same heavy, white metal sink with ridged drain boards on
each side. The cabinetry is the same off white metal. I’m certain that if I
opened a drawer, it would balk and give a rusty screech before opening, and
close with a heavy, clanging thud.
The sound of my footsteps as I walk the wooden floors
through the high ceilinged rooms is familiar.
The parlor has a large area of untreated wood in the center, where a rug
would have lain. The mantel and tile in this room are the same as my former
home, the dark wood and mirror glass contrasting with the mottled-bottle green
tile of the fireplace. The mirror is oval instead of square.
One wall of the entrance is paneled floor to ceiling in dark
wood. A loveseat is built underneath a window opposite. The banister is square,
the pegs turned.
Upstairs, I see my old home continue in the wavy glass, the
heavy wooden frames and doors. The ratty carpeting muffles my footsteps. I have
no doubt that if the carpeting was stripped away, the sound of walking through
the rooms of the second floor would echo too. A half dismantled kitchen stands
in one room, the remnants of a time when the place was split into apartments.
This is not my house. The rooms are right angles instead of
hexagon curves. The structure is brick instead of vinyl over wood frame. The
basement is slab instead of dirt, with the same cement footprint from a long
discarded oversized furnace in the middle of the room. The bathrooms are
woefully out of date, the basement needs rebuilt, the windows need replaced.
On the way home, J talks about potential, how confident he
is that he could bring the place back to life. He feels the same resonance as
I, the same sense of familiarity that comes from walking back into a place that
you truly loved and called home. We have the money and skills this time around
to do it right, he argues.
I say no, that it is too much work, with a young child. J is
working as a contractor and doesn’t have the illusion of a safety net that comes
with full-time employment. I make enough to cover our bills if he should become
unemployed, but just enough.
Still, even if it is just memory, this is my house. Standing large and high on top of a hill, with a view of the country below, wild and overgrown landscaping, a detached garage with poorly hung doors.
