note archive #4

today, i sit in a house cluttered and lived in. lived in beyond its prime, through fresh paint and new beginnings, to second coats, goodbyes, through the highs and lows, doors slammed and forced off their hinges, the doors that refuse to shut, the vines growing through the cracks in the windows. resilient.

i think of the people that came before us, and i wonder what their stories were. how many steps they took on these floors, sunken in, stained. i wonder about the meals they had, a sweet, warm scent that wafts through the air.

i think of it all, and i think about us, the year we were here, a tiny dot on the timeline.

i remember the first night, the mattress on the floor, the sirens that became background noise over time like anything else. a soft hum. the fan you turn on to fall asleep. 

when did it go from a house to a home? 

i think of grocery trips twice a month, down the street and back, routine and familiar. in my mind, i try to count the trips we made there. the money we spent and the food we ate, or the food we didn't (always too ambitious with the potatoes.)

i think of music, games, laughter, tears.

smoke alarms that were too eager to go off, the finicky stovetop, the smoke in the air. the picnic we had that only remained outside for five minutes before we got tired of swatting away flies. 

kneeling over the toilet after too many drinks, waking up in a cold sweat or a real sweat, the nightmares that startle you awake at 3 in the morning.

songs on repeat like a lifeline. time ticking away. hours spent waiting for something that ended up being nothing. 

all these words i've thought and said, words i've typed, words i wished i could take back, and it's hitting me now that it is december again, and this won't be our home anymore. the clutter will disappear in waves and the weight will fall away into the air. empty and cold again, lying in wait to be covered with another coat of paint.

do we get to pack up the memories and take them with us?