God bless orange moons, composition books, home espresso machines and feathers worn in our hair
There are things I am not. Plenty of things. Practical. Outwardly romantic. Rooted in reason - in logic. Regretful. Connected. Nostalgic. I am not.
I am longing. Anticipatory. Always looking forward to something. Looking forward to hearing Claire's sleepy feet walk the hallway in the morning. Forward to an email, a phone call, an event. Dally. A birthday party. Christmas. April and then May. Then autumn. Always daydreaming it. Building it up. Living it in my head for weeks and weeks. And just as it has begun, I have moved on to the next. For me, anticipation is often better than the occurrence. Longing.
One of my favorite things: To drive at night through cozy neighborhoods with coffee, warm music and a soft ache in my heart. To peek into the amber light of living rooms. To catch a glimpse of a maple bookcase or cherry dining table. A brick fireplace and a well-framed painting. Candles lit. A quilt thrown over a chair.
Daydreams of homes have varied throughout my life. Sometimes, still. I have dreamed of industrial lofts with concrete floors and steel beams and a cold detachment that is reflective of my worst quality. I have dreamed of tiny New York apartments with puce rugs and thirteen coats of dirty lead paint. Messy kitchens. Sparkling bathrooms. Bedrooms just large enough for two. I have dreamed of farmhouses outside the city with covered front porches and falling down barns that double as recording studio/painter's room. It is always raining in that one. And I am always wearing a brushed cotton housedress, sipping coffee out of an orangey-brown mug with two hands. I have dreamed of an Arts and Crafts home with a den and a husband who drinks brandy there while I read in front of the fireplace. I have a cranberry, polar fleece blanket around me. I am, ultimately, unhappy in that house and eventually I leave it.
I have loved all of my homes - with the unfortunate exception of two. And I love my home now. It feels tender. It invites friends in for coffee at all hours. I have made great effort in the past two years to make it so. It is Claire and it is me. Colorful and bright in the morning, subdued and serene at naptime and when night comes it is soft, sleepy orange moonlight. But something always gives me that itch - to go somewhere unfamiliar and conquer - make it home. When I have, when it is - go again. But I cannot (go again). At least not now. And so I drive down streets lined with old trees and recyclng bins at the curb.
There is a home at Sixth and (a street I will leave unnamed). This is my house now. I drive past often, as if checking just to make sure it's still there. A brick tudor with ivy covering almost every inch. A wreath on the front door made of eucalyptus. And though I have never been inside, I know every inch of it. I feel too comfortable there. It is my house.
I know how it feels to brew coffee as the sun rises in the kitchen. Pull blueberry muffins from the oven. I can see Claire's small hand grasp the banister as she steps carefully down the staircase for juice and cereal. The way the sunlight colors her hair strawberry when she sits at the table rubbing sleep from her eyes. My chocolate chenile robe. How the wood feels dangerously slick under my slippers.
It smells of almond. There are crisp, white sheets on the guest bed. A cushioned window bench where Olive and Juliette lay together, drifting in and out of sleep all day. A pantry stocked with spices and cocoa.
I can see the fuzzy colors of fat bulbs on the Christmas tree. Smell the pine mingling with old newspaper. There's nothing new about this house. Everything has settled comfortably. I keep a better house here. My hand towels are always clean. Claire's toys are never tossed in a closet. My clothes are always taken to the dry cleaners at this house - never subjected to the gentle cycle with a quick prayer for their safe voyage. When rays of sun beam into the living room there is considerably less dust sparkling in the air.
My herbs grow fresher in this house. Squash is easier to halve. The candy jar is always full and there is always vanilla bean ice cream to top warm pie. I always have postage stamps here. The dishwasher is quieter. Batteries don't get so low so fast. Bulbs don't flicker and pop when they go out here - they just fade quietly. I am happy to change them in this house. I smile as I do it.
Teeth are whiter. Friends are happier. Music is more moving. Good movies are longer. Beautiful novels don't end. Oil paint dries faster. There is a place for everything. For greeting cards, fabric markers, newspaper clippings, old tax information. There is a better rug for soaking up puddles off snow boots in the front corridor. A place to hang my keys. A coat rack. There are pretty charms for wine glasses. A butter dish.
Fluffier pillows, extra down comforters folded neatly in closets. The doorbell rings more often. The telephone, less. The grass - a spectacular shade of green.
This house is my house as long as I drive past. As long as I sip coffee and turn down the radio as I get nearer. As long as I check on it.
I am longing. Anticipatory. Always looking forward to something. Looking forward to hearing Claire's sleepy feet walk the hallway in the morning. Forward to an email, a phone call, an event. Dally. A birthday party. Christmas. April and then May. Then autumn. Always daydreaming it. Building it up. Living it in my head for weeks and weeks. And just as it has begun, I have moved on to the next. For me, anticipation is often better than the occurrence. Longing.
One of my favorite things: To drive at night through cozy neighborhoods with coffee, warm music and a soft ache in my heart. To peek into the amber light of living rooms. To catch a glimpse of a maple bookcase or cherry dining table. A brick fireplace and a well-framed painting. Candles lit. A quilt thrown over a chair.
Daydreams of homes have varied throughout my life. Sometimes, still. I have dreamed of industrial lofts with concrete floors and steel beams and a cold detachment that is reflective of my worst quality. I have dreamed of tiny New York apartments with puce rugs and thirteen coats of dirty lead paint. Messy kitchens. Sparkling bathrooms. Bedrooms just large enough for two. I have dreamed of farmhouses outside the city with covered front porches and falling down barns that double as recording studio/painter's room. It is always raining in that one. And I am always wearing a brushed cotton housedress, sipping coffee out of an orangey-brown mug with two hands. I have dreamed of an Arts and Crafts home with a den and a husband who drinks brandy there while I read in front of the fireplace. I have a cranberry, polar fleece blanket around me. I am, ultimately, unhappy in that house and eventually I leave it.
I have loved all of my homes - with the unfortunate exception of two. And I love my home now. It feels tender. It invites friends in for coffee at all hours. I have made great effort in the past two years to make it so. It is Claire and it is me. Colorful and bright in the morning, subdued and serene at naptime and when night comes it is soft, sleepy orange moonlight. But something always gives me that itch - to go somewhere unfamiliar and conquer - make it home. When I have, when it is - go again. But I cannot (go again). At least not now. And so I drive down streets lined with old trees and recyclng bins at the curb.
There is a home at Sixth and (a street I will leave unnamed). This is my house now. I drive past often, as if checking just to make sure it's still there. A brick tudor with ivy covering almost every inch. A wreath on the front door made of eucalyptus. And though I have never been inside, I know every inch of it. I feel too comfortable there. It is my house.
I know how it feels to brew coffee as the sun rises in the kitchen. Pull blueberry muffins from the oven. I can see Claire's small hand grasp the banister as she steps carefully down the staircase for juice and cereal. The way the sunlight colors her hair strawberry when she sits at the table rubbing sleep from her eyes. My chocolate chenile robe. How the wood feels dangerously slick under my slippers.
It smells of almond. There are crisp, white sheets on the guest bed. A cushioned window bench where Olive and Juliette lay together, drifting in and out of sleep all day. A pantry stocked with spices and cocoa.
I can see the fuzzy colors of fat bulbs on the Christmas tree. Smell the pine mingling with old newspaper. There's nothing new about this house. Everything has settled comfortably. I keep a better house here. My hand towels are always clean. Claire's toys are never tossed in a closet. My clothes are always taken to the dry cleaners at this house - never subjected to the gentle cycle with a quick prayer for their safe voyage. When rays of sun beam into the living room there is considerably less dust sparkling in the air.
My herbs grow fresher in this house. Squash is easier to halve. The candy jar is always full and there is always vanilla bean ice cream to top warm pie. I always have postage stamps here. The dishwasher is quieter. Batteries don't get so low so fast. Bulbs don't flicker and pop when they go out here - they just fade quietly. I am happy to change them in this house. I smile as I do it.
Teeth are whiter. Friends are happier. Music is more moving. Good movies are longer. Beautiful novels don't end. Oil paint dries faster. There is a place for everything. For greeting cards, fabric markers, newspaper clippings, old tax information. There is a better rug for soaking up puddles off snow boots in the front corridor. A place to hang my keys. A coat rack. There are pretty charms for wine glasses. A butter dish.
Fluffier pillows, extra down comforters folded neatly in closets. The doorbell rings more often. The telephone, less. The grass - a spectacular shade of green.
This house is my house as long as I drive past. As long as I sip coffee and turn down the radio as I get nearer. As long as I check on it.
posted by Floge at 8:07 AM
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