When I Die [Wattys 2016]

Chapter 15: Home Sweet Home

Home. I was home.
I never thought I'd make it back here. When we pulled up to the front, my mom and I, she was grinning ear-to-ear. I don't think she could have been happier if she tried. I really hoped I wouldn't disappoint her.
It looked different, or, maybe I was different. It had never seemed like much to me, this brown house, with the zero-lot-line. The foyer, with the hole in the wall, the one Sam and I made when we were learning to long board. We'd stuck notes in that hole for a while afterwards, clever things like, "you suck" and "eat a booger, dummy". Mom stuck a table in front of it afterwards, but you could still see it if you knew where to look.
The living room, with the awful beige shag carpet where Hattie learned to roll over and walk, where Oscar the Dog blended in if he laid down and closed his eyes, with the picture wall, all the special pictures we'd ever taken in our lives: first day of school forced smiles all the way from pre-k to now, sports portraits, Hattie's dance portrait, Sam's picture with his band, Aaron and Lara's high school prom picture, graduation pictures, engagement pictures, wedding picture, sonogram... soon to be inundated with pictures of their baby. There was giant leather furniture in our living room that was older than Sam, that we probably couldn't move again if we tried.
The kitchen, a bright salmon color, that my mom loved, and my dad hated, but that my dad painted anyways, because he loved my mom. The beat-up white cabinets that my mom was going to re-do until everyone started with the "distressed look", and now she felt like it was popular.
There was a new, giant, brown "farmhouse style" table in the dining area, with two benches on each side... at least that's what my mom called it. My dad bought it for her, for their 28th wedding anniversary the year before. She said it was her dream table, one she wanted to fill with grandchildren and in-laws one day. My mom loved to cook, and she wanted all of us to have a place when we came to visit. My mom and dad's bedroom was downstairs.
The rest of our bedrooms were upstairs, Hattie's was pink and yellow, it looked like a barbie store threw up on the floor, at all times. She had a giant telescope that Aaron bought for her last birthday that she used almost every night. She had all sorts of toys, all over the place. It fit her personality well. I guess all of our rooms fit our personalities pretty well, actually. Sam's was hectic, covered in dirty clothes, posters covering the walls from ceiling to floor. He had a drum kit that our parents bought him for Christmas when he was about ten. He became a pretty decent drummer in a few months, and now spent his evenings banging them as loud as possible. We tried to start a band once before, but I could only produce songs once every few months if I was lucky... Much too slow to be a band. Thankfully, we shared a wall so I could always hear his beautiful music... always. Finally, there was my room. My room was dark grey, organized, clean. It had good clutter everywhere, books filling shelves, records filling in-between spaces. I had pictures all around my desk, and usually there were maps pinned up, with tiny red push-pins, showing everywhere I'd been, and green ones for the places I'd yet to go but wanted to. But, I'd torn my maps down, in my anger. My mom had tried to help me fix my room back up, since my meltdown over hair. But, I'd told her the maps weren't important anymore. I wasn't going to be able to finish my maps anyways. I don't know why I said it, but it made her very sad, because she smiled and nodded, and then left and I heard her later crying downstairs. Then there were instruments. Guitars, two sitting on stands and one slid under my bed. I had a keyboard in the corner shoved behind my closet door. I loved music. I taught myself to play along to records. My dad didn't like that I liked music very much. He told me it was impractical and that I didn't need to spend too much time on it, as to not distract from the Plan.

When I looked out at this house, the home I'd grown up in, this home, with the nicks in the corner where our heights were marked through the years, where our portraits hung, big ears, snaggle teeth, bad bangs and all, with the hole in the wall, behind the table, in the foyer, where Sam last told me I was his best friend... It wasn't much, but, it was everything.