I have a house. Did you know that? I do. It is four bedrooms, two porches, and lots of trees. It is creaky in summer and in winter. In February, when the nights are at their deepest pitch, you can see your breath when you get up to go to the bathroom. In July, it rings out with my birthday song and roman candles in the backyard. It hums always.
This house keeps lots of secrets. It knows where Christmas presents hide, where dirt that I can't be bothered with collects, where the other sock is. It knows the pores next to my nose -- not the pores on my nose, but the ones in that northern corner by my nose, the part that swoops under the inherited dark circles, the ones that welcomed 30 by opening up like they were 16. It knows why Michael rips the pillowcases off in his sleep, because I sure as hell do not. It knows where the pacifier skittered off to; it sees the stains on the couch cushions we just flipped over for the second time.
Upstairs, my house is a riot of color, pinks and pale yellow and a verdigris in the bathroom, where the sink drips. The ceiling needs to be repainted, and the light streaming through the hallway window showcases the years of socked feet on floorboards.
The basement is dank; the boiler growls in the corner, and the garage could use some shelves. But the fire crackles in late fall, and the front door bangs with an everybody's-here ka-clank, and it is ours.
We just have to find it.