24 October 2012 nonfiction, "This Is The House"

This is the house where childhood lives.

There is the hammock where five or six of us piled on and took turns using whatever limbs that could reach to push us back and forth, back and forth.

Over there is the swingset and the little red swing weighed down heavily with someone who is clearly older than the age of two.

Here is the bench where we sat and pondered all the problems our little minds could come up with.

Look over there, there is the deck, with the table that’s older than I am.

The umbrellas and the various new insecticide technologies which never seem to keep away the constant stream of mosquitoes.

Let’s take a walk inside.

Over there is the reading chair, with the lamp and the wedding pictures.

The kitchen is right through here, with its fruit wallpaper and big wide window. My grandmother really loves the birds she sees, and that window showed her and me our first hummingbird.

Upstairs is the warmest place in the house. Especially this room, my favorite to sleep in whenever I sleep over.

The big double bed and the tiny television, the cushy bench and the thick curtains. That tiny little alarm clock that is oh so loud.

Here’s the kid’s room. Two tiny little double beds and the table with the double lamp. The closet that contains bunny slippers that have been there gathering dust since it stopped being cool to have them.

Under that table with the cloth that matches the comforters, I and many cousins have spent time hiding and sulking.

Here’s the office. Many forts have been built here. There’s the radio that has played more Billy Joel and Elton John than contemporary music. Here’s the chest full of baby clothes.

Here’s Pop-pop’s desk, with neatly lined-up pens and paper and useless tour books and receipts.

Let’s move into Grammy and Pop-pop’s bedroom. Here’s their huge walk-in closet, and here’s their enormous bathroom. The rainfall shower and the larger than life bathtub.

But getting away from upstairs, let’s move into the most memory-filled area of the house: the basement.

There’s the little patch of carpet, the chalk on the walls, the old plastic kitchenette. The croquet set, the dress-up box, the big plastic ball. The walker, the old crib, the fake wheelchair. The roller skates that “Gabrielle and Gabriella” the skating stars used to jump-start their careers. The doll house full of mismatched furniture, and the 1980s Barbies.

That piece of paper fluttering over there, that’s a playbill from one of the many performances. The chairs aren’t usually put away like this, normally they’re lined up for the matinee.

Look in the corners and you’ll probably find an old glass and some smushed spiders. Maybe an old potato chip that didn’t make it into our mouths before our parents came down to scold.

This house is full of memories, and one day these memories will fade. Grandchildren will have grandchildren of their own, and new memories will gently ease out the old ones.

But for now, let’s hope the fairies in the fairy house out back will preserve our memories long enough for me to finish this poem.