February 15th, 2021
There’s this house.
Not the house in this photo. Not any of the houses I grew up in.
The house that I am.
The older I get, the less the rooms make sense, and the more rooms I find there are.
One day, I’m dusting a flawless hanging light fixture. The next, distinct cracks start to spread over its glassy surface as memories I rediscover shift the entire framework and structure of the house.
Some mornings, I can draw the curtains all the way, open the windows up wide and bathe in seemingly eternal sunshine.
Others, I can’t find a window or door at all, and the house feels sinister, dark and haunted.
I fill it with so many things and words and people and whenever I think I’ve completely filled the entire house, finally, I find another room, an empty room, and I find more things and words and people to fill it.
I’ve poured gasoline in rooms and set them on fire, only to find them completely intact the next day.
I’m in a constant state of remodel. I’ve let people go into rooms that hurt them, and for that, all I can be is brutally, sincerely sorry, and hope to lock those rooms strongly enough to make them nothing more than historical sites on the property.
From my house, I see your house. I’m envious of your house. Of all the houses. But every morning I look out my window and see your house change, too, and I remember that you work on yours like I work on mine.
My warm, haunted house.
And I am as proud of yours as I am of mine.