30 plus years ago we had this house built.
The cupboards and floors, windows, bricks
even the sofa are all showing their age.
Spots, stains and streaks here, crumbling
mortar there, countertops starting to curl
and peel. You promised me a new kitchen
more than 10 years ago – I found the video
the other day where, laughing, I made you
promise! Sheepishly, you did. Finally, the
days have come to plan and pick, estimate
and count the pennies. All is set to begin...
yet I hesitate. Because you will not have
sat dawdling over coffee with me in the
new kitchen. You will never have napped
with any of our beloved mutts on the new
sofa. The new hearth will admirably support
the old wood stove, but you aren’t here to
sit and watch the flames with me. The signs
of age this house wears are the signs of
us aging here together -- the wear and tear
of friends, family, kids, dogs, piles of wood
against the winter’s chill, lines of late
tomatoes ripening on the windowsills. The
floor are a messy road map from wheeled
toys, muddy boots, the ladder’s scratch from
each time we needed to deal with that
stoopid skylight. The tiled floors we put
in together will not change, but unless
you are somehow embedded in the grout,
you won’t be present in any other fixtures.
I have lived here for exactly half my life
and until recently, all of that time was
with you. I stumble in conversation when
I hear myself say “...my house” instead
of “...our house.” While technically
that is true, I guess what I’m really
feeling is that while it may now be
my house, my home is with you.