As my hand grips the door handle, my prints are left against it as before. My hand is part of the handle, having merged with it many times. It touches it when I leave the house, only to make its return when I come back home; I always do. The metal is cold and worn, yet so familiar. I have known this metal my whole life, and it knows me. It holds all my memories: ones of pain, fear, love, and joy. The house is like my body, growing and changing. Parts have fallen apart and are under constant strain to maintain their previous form, while other parts are untouched and beautiful. The house is just a structure, but it has housed every waking moment of my entire life.
As my hand parts with the door handle, I find myself in the entryway. The stairs are off to my right. They are old wooden stairs with a weathered green tint. I would hang from the railings as a child, sticking my hands through the various cutouts and sliding down the length of the railing. I remember which stairs creak, almost all of them, and what each specific plank sounds like. In times when I was more devious, I experimented with ways to clear the stairs with minimal noise, hoping that my mother would not hear. Stained glass windows line the wall against the stairs. Old windows that used to pull open at an earlier time, but now are dusted shut. When the sun begins to set, it casts a golden glow through the glass and I like to think it is a reminder of the joy I have had whilst growing up there.
To the left of the stairs is the living room. Our couch sits against the large window; it has been lived in. It has seen tears, heard laughs, and been cherished by the pets that I grew up with. Across from the couch, there is a cutout in our bookcase where the television used to sit. Now this cutout is home to my grandfather’s military service flag, and the plaque that came along with it, a reminder that things are not the same as they used to be. I cannot remember my grandfather visiting our home much, usually, we would travel to see him. Now, he sits and rests on our bookshelf.
My favorite part of the living room is the mantel. The house is old and at one time it relied on its four fireplaces for warmth, but now they are blocked off. I remember wondering how Santa would get down our chimney if it was blocked from the inside, which is a practical thought that only a child would have. Now, our fireplaces and mantels hold family photos and cards, maybe the occasional vase, but usually empty of flowers. The mantel is dark wood, my favorite, a newer installation in the house but still existing for more than a decade. My mother had found it in a repurposed junkyard, and my father brought it home and refinished it. The mantel sits against the deep, wine-red walls of the living room. I have always liked the color, and I do not remember a time when that color did not exist in that room.
I used to spend a lot of time in the living room. I would build Legos and play games with my sister. She has since moved out, and when her absence was fresher, the house felt lonely and so did I. On more recent days, the top floor of my home feels like a graveyard. A place where memories and dreams have retired, closed away in an attic closet. The attic holds every level of my life, and one could walk through and see the growth and changes made. Bins of family photos are tucked into every corner. They are out of order, occasionally sifted through on birthdays or holidays, but otherwise, they sit still, wondering when they will be looked at once more. My father’s old medical textbooks fill the cupboard space, as he decided the house would keep them after his divorce, but every other part of him has left. Just the memories remain, brought back by the drawings on the tiles surrounding the fireplace in our dining room. I thought of myself as a young artist at the time, but my father sat me on the stairs, rewarding me with timeout for my vandalism. Though this memory may not be joyful, I still cherish it, as it is a part of me, and a part of the house.
The house is beautiful. It is the same as it has been, yet simultaneously, nothing is the same. It is growing old with me. At first glance, it is a piece of art, from the stained glass to the wooden mantels and tiled fireplaces. But with further inspection, you can see the dust that blankets it and the cracks forming in the walls. It has indeed been lived in, as a house should be. It is tired, but still together, and it will likely remain for another century as it already has. To someone passing by on the street, it is just a building, but to me it is everything. It is my life, my identity, my shelter, my love. As I grow older, I want to care for it. There are holes in the wall, each with a story, that I want to patch. There is clutter in the basement and attic that I want to clear. I view the clutter as a collection of junk, yet it is still so sentimental to me. The old guitar and piano in the basement are a reminder of younger times. They take up space, yet I fear I might miss the sight of them if they were removed.
The house is the final reminder of my family, especially in times when we were together. As I have said before, it is my life. When I was younger I took it for granted, and I could not recognize its beauty. Now that everything has changed, it is all that I see. I know the day will come when I have to say goodbye to the house. I hope when that day comes, the house will know how much I cherish it and everything that it holds. I hope that I have loved the house like it has loved me.
