Everything was exactly the same. Just how I left it. The only difference were some dirty dishes in the sink, mucky counters and the remnants of crispy, fried chicken on my favourite coffee table that couldn’t be traced to me, for two reasons, 1) I was away for the past two weeks, 2) I don’t eat chicken.
I wonder how many homes are truly built these days – what care and attention went into the construction? When I returned home or the place I currently live, I honestly felt nothing. I felt no positive sense of returning somewhere with memories crafted into the walls – I felt no negative feelings either – just a sense of vast yet mild indifference.
Like this box was crafted, no, constructed in haste. It was thrown together – only a means to end for the contractors and labourers to make a paycheque. These walls had no tender hands placing them delicately together, nailing them in place like a perfectly patched quilt of boards. These windowsills were cut in quickly – using cheap materials like MDF that has been so heavily processed that the origins of the tree are likely bleached, chopped, glued, waxed and bruised out of its memory long before arriving on site.
These windows get stuck – because the 45 degree angles were more like 46’s and 43’s – straight lines and levels compete for sanity within these walls.
The front door had paint sloshed over it once and once only in five years bearing scuffs and hand marks of greasy fingers, hockey sticks, dog fur and converse treads.
The comings and goings of this house, all attempts aside, are purely utilitarian. To protect from the elements, to land for meals, to pack lunches, wash gym clothes and bodies. To remove stains, keep voices out, down. To spark ideas, keep peace, hold space. To separate family, to bring us together. To curl up, to splay out – to lounge – chasing the morning sun from the back balcony to the front stoop.
where rivers are born 