Poems n' Stuff

Memories of a different time

There is a house, at the edge of a forest, sat on top of a hill that overlooks a small town. I used to live in that house, in that home. Its full of memories of Christmas's and birthdays, learning experiences and injuries, and above all, keepsakes from the few that had died.

Its a cozy little house, a fifty or so year old house built on a foundation of bricks and ancestors, a bright yellow exterior that had started to peel and chip 6 years ago. And the rusty chain-link fence with passionfruit wrapping around and in between the squares, blocking one of the gates leading to the front yard. Old and new butterfly trees surrounded by the long fallen purple leaves and tall grass.

I stick the key in the door and hear the familier clunk sound of the deadbolt getting stuck in the door. As a kid I could never kick the door hard enough to rattle the detatched deadbolt back into its slot which is how we had to open the door many times before. I delivered a solid kick to the door, then opened it as gently as I could, almost like a silent apology.

I stepped into the large living room and stood on the carpet, not wanting to take my shoes off, I was here for a reason after all.

The pellet stove rested on top of its raised tile throne which sat in the northern corner of the living room which was only furnished with two huge couches, a rug passed down, and a cheap bookshelf. almost all of the walls in this old home were a boring light grey that we always swore we would change, but never got around to.

The closest door would have been my parents old room, one thing that i'll give them is they knew how to make a home without the money that we probably needed.

They had the standard bed, nightstand, dresser combo, the thing that set off the simplicity was the walls, covered in pictures and drawing and jewelry. All of the things they might have collected, sticks and shells me and my brother had given them, all the beach glass that my mom loved so much. The messy and overpacked dresser was like an untold story, my dads half being unfolded and spilling over the sides, his hats on the floor everywhere around it.

I backed out, but kept the door open, the soft glow of light from the one small window lit up the dresser and the bottom half of the bed, it felt peaceful.

The next door only a few feet away from the other was the bathroom. I smiled as soon as I walked in and saw the measuring doorframe and the stains on the walls and floor from bad experiences with various hair dyes and fourth grade science projects. I got a pencil out of my pack and stood against the other measurements. I then placed my head against the frame and marked where I stood, I looked at how much I had grown since I was last here, one foot, 5 inches. Little me would have been mad at how short I still am.

I looked through the drawers and was surprised to see that the toothpaste and shampoos were still there. and of course the huge sink that had been baby's first bath so many times over, and the mirror which was attached to the wall with strings of glue that spelled love in messy cursive.

stepping back out of the room, I passed under the arch connecting the kitchen and the living room. It was almost sad to not smell anything in this room since I was so used to the aroma of dinner calling me to sit at the table and talk with my mom as she let me put the spices into a pot of mashed potatos. This was the kitchen where my aunt baked my 8th birthday cake, a two tier purple cake with toy toppings that I still have in my garage somewhere.

And in a hallway leading from the kitchen was the laundry room where I put way to much soap into the washer and ended up flooding the room with bubbles. We were all just thankful that the machine didn't break.

And finally, at the very end of the house, my old bedroom. It pained me to see it empty, with only a bit of sunlight streaming in from the overgrown patio door that hadn't been able to open since before I was born. There have been so many good memories here, too many to count.

And suddenly I remember, I remind myself of why I came here, to paint over the pink walls and paint them a dark blue, to take everything that she cherished and make it mine again. Yesterday I had rage and buckets of paint, convinced that this was the right thing to do, the only way to reclaim myself, But now...

That night I drove home with the paint, I decided that it would be put to better use as the night sea in a painting, or shining jewels in a crown. And that maybe there was nothing to reclaim, I couldn't change what once was, even if I wanted to. And even though that past, wasn't exactly correct, the love and the feeling that would stay between those walls, was not the right thing to change.

Maybe some day, ill find something that actually needs changing, and when I do, I can go buy some different paint.