Month: September 2015

Home (part 2)

It’s only a few minutes away from where you used to live, but this new neighborhood feels like a different planet. Free-standing houses bordered by driveways and fences. Sprinklers spitting water over grassy lawns. Golden Retrievers prancing with leashes in their mouths.

It’s a tranquil street connected to a busy road. Transco Tower winks in the distance. An occasional siren interrupts the night. Just around the corner, well-lit stores and restaurants buzz with traffic. The press of the city is comforting, in a way.

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It’s dark wood paneling and big bubble skylights. The double-sided fireplace and a bookshelf that swings open on a hidden hinge. The plastic Christmas tree that never gets taken down, only put out of sight. A cardboard cutout of Captain Picard that you begged Blockbuster to give you.

It’s the packet of seeds you plant haphazardly in the backyard. (They never even sprout.)

It’s the jar of bitter sauce your mom brushes onto your hands to stop you from sucking your thumb. (You hide the jar and then claim the housekeeper must have misplaced it.)

It’s the tap on your window at five in the morning, the chili cheese fries slipped through the mail slot, and those furtive hours spent discovering both your body and his. (You love him, but you know it won’t last.)

It’s climbing the roof and writing song lyrics until the stars come out. Raking the leaves with your dad on a Sunday afternoon. Eating candied yams and Japanese cucumber at Thanksgiving. Dancing in the bathroom and learning how to drive. Pimples and cover-up and worrying about your weight. Birthday parties and Homecoming mums. Calculus and Nora Roberts.

It’s over twenty years of memories and secrets, conversations and tears. Impossible to capture.

It’s a place you take for granted, to be honest.

It’s stability and comfort, even in its decline.

It’s not going to be there forever, though. Appreciate it while you can.

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Anniversary

“Watching a time happen and thinking, I will remember this.”

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Photo by Susan Plocher. Words by Hannah Nicole (via Meg Fee).

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Home (part 1)

It’s where they brought you after the hospital. Your very first bed. Your very first everything.

It’s your betta fish named Rainbow swimming in her bowl on the kitchen counter. Your rabbit named Thumper running circles around the legs of the dining table. The piano in the corner of the living room, where you practiced “Oats, Peas, Beans and Barley Grow.” The bookshelf that nearly fell on you.

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It’s is the Old Farmer’s Almanac in your dad’s study, with its wispy gold-edged pages. Your bedroom window looking out over a giant tree and the neighborhood basketball court. The teeny tiny snow man you made on top of the hedges when you were four. The vanity counter you used to sit on while your mom dried and brushed your hair after a bath.

It’s chicken pox and sleepovers and Easter Egg hunts. Sitting alone in the car in a darkened garage because you yelled “I hate you!” during a fight. The calendar in the hallway that everyone forgot to update. The soft blue sofa that you jumped and slept and watched TV on.

It’s the tears you cried when you learned that you were moving. Your certainty that nowhere else would ever be as perfect. The moving truck slowly filling up while you sat inside pouting. The staircase that you hugged goodbye.

It’s the playground you took your husband to the first time he came to visit your hometown. It’s the gazebo you still drive by sometimes.

It’s a collection of old memories, faded and dusty like photographs in a shoebox. But precious nevertheless.

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