Being here


It’s quiet in the new house. It reminds me of long, warm afternoons spent holed up in my bedroom as a young girl. This must have been before my twin brothers were born. Although, when I think back on those days, I don’t remember the house getting much louder or chaotic when they arrived. Just more exciting on a deep, internal level. Anyway, when I’m in our new house, I feel familiar feelings of my childhood. Every creak feels special and deserving — our home was built in the late twenties, if I’m remembering correctly — and the kitchen cabinets give the impression that they have soaked up a lot of stories over the years. When I’m in our kitchen, memories from my childhood kitchen rise to the surface every now again. It’s a nice feeling, being here. (And there.)

Our house is the kind of house that almost feels as though you have to work to live in it. The kitchen is pretty tiny, and I like it that way; our washer and dryer set up is in the garage. There was a tiny door, built later in the life of this house, that connects our living room to the garage, which sounds weird and it kind of is. I don’t know when that door was built, but there were a good number of years during which whoever occupied the home didn’t have this luxury. The house isn’t small, but it is doesn’t leave one with a lot of space to fill, which I also love. You can only fit what you really need, and with those things you have the capacity to create so many memories. This is the kind of house that gives the impression that it can’t be owned. It doesn’t feel like we own it, at least. Rather, to me, it feels as though our family will be only a small part of its rich life.

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