My owners abandoned me. Left for the new condo, in the big city, shiny linoleum in the kitchen, stain-free carpet in the living room. Those neat windows that fold down so the outsides can be cleaned. I’ve never seen it, mainly because I’m a house that cannot be moved, but I’ve heard. Oh, believe me, I’ve heard.
Amanda still lives upstairs. She spends her days and nights walking through
my hallways, leaving trails of life behind her. Her dirty clothes are piled
on my bathroom floor and her jewelry is laid neatly on the counter. The gels
and hairsprays stand, cap-less and free, by her bright light up mirror. At night,
she turns on all the lights in the bathroom and turns on the small black boom
box onto the local country music station. The heat of the water fogs up the
mirrors. She dances about the room playfully, my floor seeming to bounce with
pleasure, as she removes her makeup and hops in the shower. The ritual is so
cozy, so familiar, that I never want it to end.
Her bedroom is my favorite. A hammock of stuffed animals, which keep watch over
her as she sleeps, as they have for at least 12 years, hangs in the far back
corner. A dark brown wooden rocking chair serves as a resting-place for displaced
clothes. Bags, shoes with no mates, notebooks, pillows crowd her pink carpet,
all competing for the prime spot on top of the pile, so as not to be forgotten
by their owner. But she knows. She knows where everything in that room stays.
If someone moves it, she knows. If it is taken, she knows. Through the center
of the room, a line of pink carpet serves as a path to the closet, where several
formal dresses and a graduation gown hang on the door. Her bed is filled with
more stuffed animals. Above the bed, the neatest part of the room, is her headboard,
where stand several greeting cards and photos of she and Corey, her boyfriend.
The room is an organized mess that she wouldn’t have any other way. Neither
would I.
I’m glad she lives here. It used to be “clean this” or “dust
that”. Although occupied by the family, I was still quiet. Now, Amanda
brings her friends over, friends who leave glasses and plates on all the tables
and fill all of my corners with laughter and joy. At night,
I have been a member of this family since Bill and Judy bought me after they
married. My closets are an accumulation of 29 years worth of what some would
call junk. I call them memories. Amanda loves that about me, loves the piles
of papers by the computer, the overflow of boxes in my garage. She understands
me, and I understand her.