Raconteuse // Halsey

3

"A face is like the outside of a house, and most faces, like most houses, give us an idea of what we can expect to find inside."

-Loretta Young

Rugged softness. That's what my father and my home had in common. Both had an intimidating appearance that oddly screamed comfort and warmth. The outside of my home much resembled that of the remains of an extreme storm; messy yet beautiful. When comparing this to my father, I would say that he seemed to be the same. His clothes weren't bought at expensive stores. He's had the same pair of shoes for many years now. Despite his lack of money, he still managed to appear relatively respectable.

After stepping through the front door, the aroma of spices and freshness fill the air. The kitchen. The place where my father spent most of his time because he longed for the satisfaction of a homemade meal. It's also the place where I've been scolded many times for not washing the dishes, but that's not my point.
My father constantly pestered me to cook something with him, but I never did. I regret not taking the time to do so.

Past the kitchen would be the living room. If there was one location where my father and I bonded the most, it would be there. This was the softer side of him. Sure, we bonded over our favorite television shows and ate dinner on foldable personal tables, but it was nice. That was our lifestyle and it made me happy. My family wasn't one to go with the stereotypical traditions. I would like to believe that the cozy, gentleness of that room rubbed off on him because he tended to smile a lot whenever there.

As for other areas of my home, there was the bedroom. I always saw it as a place for secrets. I hardly went into my parents room, and when I did, it was for a short amount of time. My father was never one to share his feelings, which is why he spent his days locked up in that room, cooking up a storm of enigma and uncertainty. I didn't have the courage to question his absence.

If I had a choice, I would move back to where I was born, in an attempt to get back the familiarity of my father. It seems as if on the plane ride to Boston, my father's soul stayed back at home, forgotten and forsaken.