Making a House a Home
I’ve lived in this home since you were born. Well. Not this house. I’ve lived in five houses since you were born. But each house was this home, the only world I could claim.
Originally published on Medium
I’ve lived in this home since you were born. Well. Not this house. I’ve lived in five houses since you were born. But each house was this home, the only world I could claim. My dominion was my domicile. I brought three of you home to three different houses.
And each time I prepared the same way for you.
I washed the sheets and tucked the quilts. I swept the crumbs and righted the books. A chair in the corner, to hold me while I held you. I cooked dinners we’d eat later when it was too dangerous to take brand new you outside. A new rug, one soft enough for you to lay on. I made the world you’d call your home. I made the world I was told to make. Home is a heaven and heaven is your home.
And then, I don’t know. The sheets got dirty and the quilts came untucked. There are always crumbs and toppled books. The chair in the corner held laundry more often than it held me. The dinners mostly stayed in the back of the fridge, all that work and still turning on the oven was harder than ordering pizza.. The rug got stained, from the formula in your spit up and the markers you each found. The world I made was not a world I could maintain. Home is a house and a house can be hell.
I spent years trying to get out of our home. When you were small, we went for walks. A book in your little hands and headphones in my ears. When you went to school, I sat in coffee shops. I applied for jobs but the ones that would hire me didn’t pay enough for your care. And the ones that paid enough didn’t care for me. I’d spent too much time at home.
We moved to our fifth house two months ago. This move was meant to help me build another world, one made up of more than rocking chairs and stained rugs and the kitchen and the living room and then the kitchen again. This was going to be the house I left every day.
And well, now there is sickness. And here we are, in our house that must be a home. We wash the sheets and made forts with the quilts. We bake bread with a good crumb and write in our books. A chair in the corner, big enough for you to stretch your body across as the sun glances through the window. We cook a dinner we’ll eat tonight because it is too dangerous to take you outside. An old rug, one soft enough for you to lay on. We’re making a world we call our home. We’re making the world we want to make. Home is a heaven and heaven is our home.
