I wrote this story back in September, but it was always a favorite of my roommates and a favorite of mine.
Twice a year I fly halfway across
the country to a place called home. I
hopscotch my way across the western United States till my last flight lands in
Seattle, where it is inevitably raining.
Still, home is two hours north. I
travel between the Cascades’ towering presence to the east and the Pacific
Ocean lapping against the shore to the west, up I-5 till the Guide Meridian
exit, and down the Old Guide Road until finally, I hear the familiar sound of
the gravel driveway crunching under the tires.
I am home.
The weather stripping sucks
against the door frame as I push open the familiar front door. I take a quick sniff to catch a whiff of
home, as the only time you can smell your own home’s unique aroma is when you
are returning. I am greeted by our latest
family picture hanging in the hallway rather than my parents’ presence because
they are sound asleep at two a.m.
Every time I come home, nuances
have changed: Anna’s goldfish – Winston, Wilhelmina, and Little Pete – have
each grown half an inch, the bathroom sink has been replaced, and the shutters
have been painted olive green. Despite
the changes, most everything else remains the same; I can count on my memories
remaining right where I left them.
The following morning while my
parents are at work and my three younger sisters are in school, I walk alone
down the hallway. To the left are
pictures of relatives. My dad’s
grandparents stare stoically, their portrait next to my favorite picture of all
– my mom’s grandparents. While I never
knew them, I can see the twinkle in my great-grandpa’s eye, evidence of the
fact that when he was a boy, he peed out of a tree onto someone’s head, a
notorious family tale.
To the right, in the vacuum
closet, hang a few cherished old dresses my mom sewed for my sisters and me –
simple dresses and fancy dresses; dresses with lace and dresses with bows;
dresses with fluffy white slips underneath, perfect for twirling.
At the end of the hallway stands
one of the many bookcases, and just like the rest, it is filled to the
brim. Some books have yet to be read,
and others have walked into my family’s lives and built a home in our
hearts. Six copies of The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie
Society sit waiting to be read again, after being picked up
second-hand. After all, a book this
wonderful cannot be passed up after some poor, confused soul had the audacity
to leave it at a thrift store; books have feelings too.
I come to my parents’ bedroom and
peek inside. Above the bed hangs their wedding picture, love dancing in their
eyes. My dad’s bathroom, his only oasis
in a household of five women, brings back memories of the Christmas long ago
when I received my beloved tricycle. He
had secretly stowed it away in there, although how it fit in that little room,
I may never know.
Then, I glance towards the closet
and the three-pegged coat hook on the wall just outside the door. On the center hook hangs a garment bag,
holding a wedding dress – my wedding dress, the most beautiful wedding dress I
have ever seen, patiently waiting to be revealed on May 12 next year. I unzip the bag just enough to take a peek
inside and then zip it up again before anyone sees me.
I pull the door closed across the
shaggy brown carpet, and I walk past the bathroom, where countless hair-dos have
been done and numerous teeth-brushing parties have occurred.
Renae and Anna’s room is directly
across the hall, the room where I slept as a little girl, the room where Erica
and I played Barbies for hours in the three-story Barbie house our dad built for
us, the room where Renae and I used to shine flashlights into our neighbor’s
living room, the room where I turned thirteen and received a red rose from my
dad with a note that read, “I wanted to be the first man to ever give you
flowers.”
The room next door is Erica’s,
but it was mine for a few years. Those
were my walls, as was the wallpaper depicting stuffed animals having a tea
party. That was my bunk bed, and looking
at it now, I remember a silly tale.
Once, in the middle of the night, I awoke to a size-fifteen-foot hanging
down from the top bunk: my dad had taken refuge up there because my mom was
sick with a cold.
Outside Erica’s room is the
family room where once upon a time I learned to walk. I found walking to be quite hilarious, and
every time my two little legs managed to do it, I would giggle with glee.
The kitchen seems to quake in
fear when I step onto the linoleum: I bring death upon unsuspecting kitchen
appliances, both great and small. The
microwave, a candy thermometer, Tupperware lids, and a whisk. Two sets of electric beaters. I melted a fly swatter in the oven. The fridge handle fell off into my hands all
by itself, I promise! Why the kitchen
should tremble though, I have no idea.
Sliding open the glass back door,
I step onto the cement patio and walk across the grass, water squelching out of
the rain-soaked ground under my feet.
I’m about to enter my favorite room of all – mine.
I live in a playhouse.
Outside.
In my backyard.
Technically, it used to be the
playhouse, but my dad put in insulation, drywall, and a wooden floor. After seventeen years, I had a haven to call
my own, even if it was a mere seven by seven feet. The walls are painted cowboy tan, my
grandpa’s old lariat hangs on a horseshoe hook, and a pair of cowboy boots sits
outside the door. I once dreamed of
marrying a cowboy and moving to a ranch in Wyoming, but that is not where my
wedding dress is taking me. The man of
my dreams is from the city, but I can still wear my Ariat boots once in a
while.
I walk across the yard in the
opposite direction and enter my dad’s shop, sawdust tickling my nostrils. So many hours I spent out there talking. My dad went about his work and listened earnestly,
but I could carry on the conversation by myself anyway. Once, I challenged him to give me a topic and
see how long I could talk. “Potato
chips,” he said. I talked for an hour.
One evening during my freshman
year of high school, I pressed my bare feet against a cupboard in the shop,
making a set of footprints in the sawdust.
Now, making sawdust footprints has become a tradition, and every time
before I go back to school, I leave my dad a couple so he can remember our shop
talks even while I am away.
My home is compiled of memories,
but soon, I will not have claim over this home anymore. Wedding invitations are waiting to be
addressed, boxed up in the living room; my driftwood centerpieces are in a
bucket in the shop; and my dress is hanging from the middle peg of a coat rack
in my parents’ bedroom. My fiancĂ© and I
are anxiously counting down the days until we will have the privilege of
creating a home of our own.
I suppose I always knew that
someday I would have to leave 7050 Old Guide Road, making it a place I go to on
family vacations. But my memories will
still be there, waiting for me to push open the front door and smell the sweet
aroma of a place I once called home.
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