On most days of the week, the little Cape Cod-style house sits quiet. Lights go on before the sun rises and go off after the evening news, day after day. It's a routine that the house likes. The tenants are nice people who take care of the place very well. Fresh paint, clean floors and tender loving care to parts that creak and groan. But sometimes this dwelling gets a reminder of the way it used to be, the way it had to toughen up or crack under the pressure.
This past weekend was one of those times. It started with a familiar face that doesn't make an appearance much anymore. The girl, who once lived in this house creating lots of nests and trails, is now a grown woman living far away. But even though she tends to a home of her own, this house gives her the permission to scatter her things in her wake.
Soon followed two more former residents. "The boys," as they are collectively called, burst onto the scene. The elder, showing signs of fatigue and relief, heads for a comfortable place to unwind--the basement sofa. Within minutes his breathing becomes slow and even as he prepares his body for greater things that come after 10 p.m.
The youngest spends a moment in the entry soaking in the respite he has been longing for. Laundry is deposited, the refrigerator is examined, then as quickly as he enters the room, he is drawn to his favorite past time--zoning out in front of the television.
The house is feeling overwhelmed yet happy. Even though a quiet routine is nice, this space needs to be filled...with loud noises, active bodies, excited pets, good smelling food, joy and laughter. This house was built to be a home.
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3 comments:
I love this post!
You made me realize, I have often thought of my parent's house as a conscious thing, something that's affected by activity and silence, but I have never thought of my apartment like that.
I really like this story..I always think of my parent's house as my true home and have never really felt at home in my own apartment yet even though I've been living on my own for almost 5 years now. I still remember their first house as well as your story describes too.
This is a good post. It makes me wonder what my parent's house is like with me and my brother gone and only our 14-year-old sister living there. When I visit it does seem a lot cleaner and more quiet than it used to when we were raising hell and playing in the dirt. Boys being boys!
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