It's Sunday night, and I was lying in my bed after a long Sunday of indulgences with Jackie: food,
SuperBad, M&M's, hysterical laughter, my couch, Pig Daddy's, Season 2 of
The Office. She left, I watched the Giants upset the Pats and tried unsuccessfully to sleep. So I hopped up and got online to try and put together some thoughts.
Lately, I've been dreaming almost every night of my house in Darby. Whatever the dream is about, the setting is our house. 19 South 13th Street. I lived there since birth (just about) and we moved out a little over a year ago. My entire life played out in that house and leaving it was devastatingly difficult. I had a hard time imagining living anywhere else.
Admittedly, I drive down my old street at least once a week when I get off the train in Lansdowne. Slowly making a right onto 13th and heading towards the creek, I tap the brakes at the 3rd house from the end on the left. If anyone, particularly the current residents, saw me, I am sure I'd look like a nut or a stalker or both. I'd really cross that line of appropriateness if I did what I always crave doing - which is knock on the door and ask if I could come in and take a look around. Luckily, I've been blessed with a picturesque memory.
Coming in the front door to the porch, careful how you swing the door open. You wouldn't want it to hit the 3 white bookshelves along the wall that held tons of picture frames and cause them to fall. The sun always seeped through the 5 windows and sat in the little room like a warm fog. Throw your coat on the futon and, if you remember, take off your shoes before you step onto the whitish rugs of the living room and the rest of the house.
You'll probably be met with the smell of my Mom's perfume, cigs, eucalyptus, dinner cooking or a combination of all of the above. The couches were always oversized and comfy and TV always on. The doorway from the living to the dining rooms was framed with window panels up each side. Next to them is a light switch that never worked and we never knew its purpose.
The dining room houses the computer and desk, and our "Growing Up Gotti" mirrored dining set. The legs of the table are damaged from the flood, Hurricane Floyd, of 1999. It was my first semester at college and the storm brought the waters of the aforementioned creek at the bottom of the street to overflow. The damage to our house was extensive and it was unlivable for months. The first time I came home from college and was actually able to return to my own house wasn't until Christmas. It was a true homecoming...
Ivy and green is the theme in the breakfast room, sunflowers in the kitchen. The same fridge for as long as I can remember with photo magnets of each year we were on swim team. Head out the back door to the back porch and deck, my Dad's project in the 80's. Many, many summer nights spent out there eating dinner and it was Jenna's spot for most of high school and after.
Going up the steps to the 2nd floor, if it was the summer, there was a more than noticeable increase in temperature. The narrow bathroom's grey and white tiled floor was covered with a rug in whichever theme was the flavor of the month - butterflies, sun and moon, leopard... Peg knows she is the queen of the theme.
Jen's (old) bedroom, now used as a spare and then mine. The pink plush rug was worn in the middle. I slept in a twin bed my whole life. Remnants of my childhood still linger as well as high school and college pictures, way too many frames and an overflowing closet.
The hallway leading to the master bedroom, also narrow, is a place I used to sleep when I was young and scared. I'd awake in the middle of the night and, instead of climbing into bed with my Mom and Dad, just peek under the door, see the light of the TV and curl up on the hall floor. That was usually good enough for me. Their room was swallowed by their California King Brass bed and the dark wood furniture - the tan rug worn very thin and the air conditioner emitted a distinct smell - one that I'd recognize instantly and give anything to have the chance to.
The 3rd floor was used for storage, an apartment for my Mom Mom when we were very young, a little playroom of sorts, and eventually Jenna's room. Almost tripping over Puff's litter and up the dusty dark steps, it was a huge room that I would eventually kick myself for not moving my stuff up there first.
Way, way, way too many memories there to recount, I couldn't even begin to illustrate them. The house still feels like a part of me, although it's been over a year and my apartment is my own perfect little home. The day of settlement, I took off work and helped my Mom. When we made our last trip in, the rooms were depressingly empty and the walls bare, I found her sitting on the radiator, crying. She never cries, ever. Trying to be brave for her, I just sat down and soaked in the silence of being there.
I pushed my pain away and I attempted to let go. I tried (unsuccessfully) to keep a copy of the key. I left the number as speed dial 2 on my phone and listed as "Home" until I had to get a new phone. Denial? Maybe. More like tearing off a Band-Aid slowly so that you feel it and you know it's real.
Last week, Jenna sent me a text of a picture of the back porch. She took it while visiting our old neighbor. Barely recognizable and small, it surely is the same house, but not the same home.
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