Strangely, I am not leaping at the chance to move myself and my children back into our beloved house. Not just yet. Because, you see, I'm still in the processing stage. The girls and I wandered around our sadly uninhabited home, lingering in every single room, for the first time last night. It was weird.
Everything that made it once feel like a cozy home, our home, seems to be missing. Esther was amazed to discover all her old toys still in the wooden toy box in the living room. She sifted kind of listlessly through them on the floor while I was making my way through waist high grass to find my perennial garden. Our copy of Once upon a Potty was on a side table. I could imagine that book is an interesting read while stoned.
Isla, ever oblivious, amused herself by doing laps around the chimney, just like old times, on the rusted red, Radio Flyer tricycle, with the wobbly back wheels, I unearthed in the basement.
Most of our stuff is stuffed into the attic, I guess. But some part of what's missing feels irretrievable. Nonmaterial. As if nothing in the house will never be, or feel, the same again. I hope I'm wrong. I hope all it needs is our family living within its walls again to regain its shape.
It also needs a power wash and a floor sander and a coat of paint. Oy.
The students, how many were there in all?, may have left our home, but they left behind their aura. They also left a disgusting flea bag couch in the living room, the frame of another couch on a ghetto bonfire on the lawn, a giant old television and several horrible faux wood pieces, a totally -trashed wide-pine floor, some dirty socks, two pairs of smelly sneakers, a bong made from a Sunny Delight carton, a fallen- down, makeshift greenhouse on the lawn, A classic Grateful Dead vinyl album: Cats Under the Stars, a plethora of bottle caps, microbrewery stickers stuck to every surface, including the bathtub (is that really necessary?), and a thick layer of grime throughout.
Surprisingly, they did not leave behind a single tye-dyed tapestry anything or Jerry Garcia poster. Only thumbtack holes in the walls where they once hung.
|To their credit, the toilets, and the refrigerator, were clean. I think we can thank Mommy for that. Thank Goddessness for Moms.|
|The master bedroom survived relatively unscathed. Parties seemed to have stayed downstairs.|
|Master bath looks the same, aside from the bathtub sticker.|
|Bonus: I forgot Ian built |
Oh yeah. I almost forgot the mini fridge in the attic bedroom, all the way on the third floor. The Sharpie message scrawled on top speaks volumes.
|Esther spotted this first.|
How the hell am I supposed to carry that beast down the spiral staircase?
Just thinking about it all makes me want to lie down. Or maybe it makes me want to drink a cold beer, smoke a cigarette, inhaling deeply and dramatically--like a pensive single mom in a movie-- then lie down. For a week.
My pics aren't showing the half of it, I know. I couldn't bear to point the camera at the ugly stuff. Maybe tomorrow.