Ghost Home

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 The bathrooms are woefully out of date, the basement needs rebuilt, the windows need replaced.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.