It’s silly to some that a house could be a living being; a
place filled with voices and glimpses of memories, resting on deep, deep
roots. It can take years to build
such a place, and sometimes you don’t realize it has been created until it is
gone.
We
were met with shaking news yesterday. Our childhood home had been destroyed by
fire. Although my parents had
moved out while I was in University, it was still in their possession, and it
was the last place I lived before I “grew up”.
The
place was thick with memories: the sound of screaming fights between sisters;
the smell of mom’s meatloaf; the rough feel of the front railing that I was
supposed to sand. I can picture
the laminate kitchen floor, and the back entranceway with all of dad’s ball
caps hanging above the door. There was the wood trim Dad had brought to its
original glory, the TV room where Lord knows what was hidden under the couch,
my sister’s room where guinea pigs multiplied, my brother’s room where the
ceiling fell in, and my parent’s room where the most significant discussions in
my life happened while mom folded laundry.
The
big front window was where my friends and I hid on our last Halloween night
after egging several cars that drove by.
Mom physically kicked my butt and said, “The dumbest thing you can do is
come here to hide! Now they know who you are!”
I had to wash the neighbour’s car
the next morning.
Dad
built us a “fort” outside, too sturdy to be any fun. The maple trees filled our yard with bright orange leaves
each fall. We played soccer and
baseball in the backyard with our cousins every summer. Watercolour paints, brushes, dry
muffins and a cup of tea surrounded mom regularly at the dining room table.
For
me, as for any teenage girl, my room was sacred. When voting for who would get the large attic as a bedroom,
I won by sheer tidiness (not the case anymore) as my sister continually got
lost in her belongings. For years
I arranged and rearranged the furniture in my gigantic room, blasted rock music
to the rafters after a bad day at school, and cried my eyes out when rejected
by a boy. I would sit at the
bottom of the stairs and gab to my girlfriend with the phone cord stretched
through the crack in the attic door so my mom wouldn’t hear.
I
chose my path in life here, I found Jesus Christ here, and I stood at the front
door in my awful prom dress with my awful prom date and got my awful photo
taken (which is now destroyed) here.
I played the piano every night
while my parents patiently pretended they could sleep through it here.
And
I spent endless hours sitting on the front porch ironically wishing I lived
somewhere else, and was born to a different family here.
Such is the life of a teenage girl.
With
a faith that promotes not looking on the things of this world, I believe the
Lord gives us beautiful things because He knows we need love, enjoyment,
comfort and safety. As I look on
the pictures of the melted siding, the broken wooden scalloped tiles, and the
smoke billowing out of what was once my room, my heart is broken.
I know tomorrow I will get over it
and realize it is just a house.
But today I will mourn.
Man, I loved that house.
