my home was built in 1899

The door greets you with a knob directly in the center that can alert me of an arrival with a rusty ring if you spin it with enough force. Not that I wouldn’t notice someone standing on the front porch, as you can see straight to the backyard, through every room from there. The living room was clearly closed off to the kitchen at one point but otherwise now stands open with an update made in the mid 90’s. No matter when it is, 25 years ago always seems to be the worst style. Despite attempts at plastering over the history the home has, it still tells stories. Much of the walls have paint drops dripping behind one more layer of paint and the ceiling cracks were poorly healed with plaster tape, likely done by the last homeowner herself or her boyfriend. This place isn’t big enough for a family.

The baseboards that were once a prime feature of this old home are covered in caked on dust that seems to be a permanent fixture to them now. The cabinets are a stained oak color without hardware that are one shade lighter than the wood floors. There is an electric stove despite the gas heating from the basement furnace, maybe electric seemed safer. The bathroom is tucked in the middle of the three room home, crashing its’ door with the bedroom’s. Two small closets and a window with a brand new A/C unit. The bedroom is the only room that’s received any tender loving care from yours truly. It requires meticulous organization and constant upkeep to store the little clothing I do have. The winter clothes stay in the basement now.

The basement is a gateway to the past, or where monsters live, I’m still not sure yet. The stairway down was meant for a person of average 1899 height and requires a slight duck by my taller friends. One of the walls is brick painted over with white, the grout is sloppy to say the least leaving a texture undesired by any modern contractor. The floor is concrete, painted in red, then gray. The doorway to the basement closet was a taller door cut down from the bottom, you can tell because the knob hits the middle of my thigh. Original red and oxidized green brick walls are in this closet as well as access to the crawl space. I found a dead mouse in the closet once, I threw it away using a spatula, his cute little face still haunts me.

The house is quite literally falling apart at the seams showing the latex paint pulling from one side of the corner to the other, trying to simultaneously hold it together and cover up the lead paint underneath. I can relate. I had never seen it in person before I drug an amazon delivered mattress into the living room at midnight after a 22 hour drive. That was 3 years and eleven months ago.

my family loves christmas

Sometimes it seems like only my family has an obsessive need to be together over the holidays. Not only am I guilty of partaking, I can’t complain, I give in to their requests and as strange as it sounds out of context, it’s always nice to feel wanted, even by your parents.

I spent one Christmas away from them, just to see what it was like. I went on a two month trip to Europe and spent the holiday popping bottles of champagne on the coast of Croatia with two girl friends. As fun as it was, the sound of my 5 year old niece’s voice inquiring as to why I wouldn’t be around for the holidays soaked into my skin like salt on a bloody wound. It left a scar.

I’m 31 years old now and I haven’t had a boyfriend in 5 years. I thought they’d understand why I wanted to take the paramount day to spend with him having no friends or family around while he worked the day after. The word boyfriend never seems to carry enough weight though. Possibly because we’re in the south, or my parents are old fashioned, or maybe they’ve just seen me mess up too much stuff in the past. The disappointment in my brother’s voice traumatized me enough to give in to them, my niece is clearly her father’s daughter and after all, blood is blood.

As the day approaches, it’s becoming more apparent just how intensely my family has influenced me over the years. Gifts and money aren’t everything but the thought really really counts. Without his family or friends around for the eve or the day of, the special obsession venture consumed me. Roaming around town gathering mediocre decorations, food to feed a dozen, and as many little gifts I could slather in cat covered wrapping paper and equal amounts of tape. Sure, the new pho bowls from crate & barrel and steak dinner were nice but the biggest gift in my mind was in a dorky puppy holiday card. Specific instructions were given Christmas morning, not to open until I was 30,000 feet in the air on my way to the family.

At 5,000 feet you start to get service arriving into Houston intercontinental airport and through my headphones I hear his dedicated text notification. Anxiety rolls over me as I look to see what he says; it won’t load. Losing patience but I have no choice until I land, turn off, restart, *phew*. “I love you too.”