I need to write about my house some day. How almost paradoxical we do live here. What living here has done to us, given us, taken from us.
The foundation of my house was built in 1905. We’re in the middle of the city, downtown is a few streets away. Most everyone in this neighborhood is an old contributor to this city, somehow. The wallpaper is dated, skipping the awful 70s and 60s and somehow surviving the 80s but come from an entirely different era, one of chandeliers (we still have two chandelier light things, one in the foyer and dining room) and old class like the 1920s. The windows are large and wide, even the floors will tell you stories in their creaks from the talkative boards, the wood ridges you feel as you walk around barefoot. The downstairs is always chilly. It gets so dark in some places you can’t even see your hand in front of your face. The “secret” smaller stair case from the upstairs right into the back downstairs kitchen, tells a story I’m sure.
You barter with your siblings to get you things when they go downstairs to get you snacks, and you take demands from your parents to get them a drink when you go downstairs. You know which door is opened by the squeak it has just made and who is coming up the stairs by the weight of that person shifting the floorboard, each person has their own custom noise. You wonder how the ancient doorknobs and doors of each room have survived till today. You wonder all that this house, your house has known, and you wonder how you could ever leave it.
Yes I need to write about this house.