Humble Abodes

>>>still in progress<<<<<

The stairwell is tattered, the concrete breaking on the cracks you used to jump across or on in order to not break your mother’s back or if the case may be on certain hard days in your past, to do just that. Little rocks dance around the edges and find their way into the yard you used to sled down in old Indiana weather in the middle of March, landing in the middle of the not-so-busy but busy enough road that your mom constantly was screaming out the window for you to be careful- not caring enough to come out and jerk the sled out from under you- only on certain days would she go that far. You walk up them, one fateful step at a time, remembering the days when mom and dad were there, and Zachary was just a little babe rocking in the cradle of supposed Love waiting for Fate to walk in and take over your lives. And then, when you open up the door, the pine green metal door that is just one of the many signs that say so much has changed since then, it turns white, the white it was when you were five, and you’re transformed into that little five year old, hiding in a bedroom from the fights, from the screams, from the cries, and most of all, from yourself.

The door creaks open- like it always has because dad never believed in WD-40, not until it was too late to loosen up the rust that was already there, and you step in, one foot at a time, through the doorway to the home you grew up in. You look up, and see the now painted red walls- you painted them that way last summer while mom and Jaime, your “new” dad went away to get married, 13 years after their first encounter. You rushed through it so quickly you admit it looks horrible and grimace at the massacre that looks as though it took place here. Perhaps it did, you wouldn’t argue either way.

Aromas begin itching at your nose, and you wonder what they are, but not for long, because, after all, this is your home away from home away from home. . . and even though you’ve failed to visit for so long, you can’t forget the smell of your mother’s one and only home-cooked dish- which she only cooked on special occasions, like this, your homecoming, nor can you deny the overriding stench of cat piss that whisks its way up your nostrils to your brain and your memory- now remembering that Zeus is dead, passed away two months ago while you were caught up in your own non-existent romantic life with . . . what’s his name again- exactly. So now, the smell, the cat piss smell that causes nausea more times than not, its nostalgia because he’s gone and you’ll forever remember you weren’t there for your mom when he left this world—it’s a trend now isn’t it.

You walk through the blood red walls of the living room that now serves as game room to 14 year old brother Zachary and wonder what will happen when the new baby comes, one foot in front of the other until you reach the kitchen. Moms over the stove, a cigarette in one hand, a ladle in the other, stirring the infamous chicken and noodles, talking on the phone clenched between neck and shoulder at the same time. She looks up to you and smiles and nods and you look down at her round belly protruding from her 2x sweatshirt from Wal-Mart. You smile, and remember cooking in her very place for eight years, until she realized you weren’t the mother- she was. You would stand over that stove burning grilled cheese and over-cooking Pot Pies in the oven while Zachary stood on the chair screaming or sat Indian style in front of the tv, waiting for you to serve him. You laugh at the thought, at the memory, and move on through the hallway-like kitchen into the back room where he sits like a king on his throne, only you know you’re not his disciple, not anything of the sort- exactly why you turn around at the site of his rocking Lazy Boy and back through all your steps into the massacre room of old.

Now the hallway begs your name, and you stand there in front of it, like it’s a maze, a cornfield maze like the one in the backyard- like the one you got lost in when you were seven and no one ever came looking for you because they were too busy pining over the new baby boy, Zachary dearest. You stare into that blood red hallway and wonder what lies at its end- even though you know. It’s your bedroom, the one you grew up in, like everything else in this house. You think about the stuffed animals that line the shelves in your room and remember each and every one of them, their names and how you came to have them, when you played with them, and when you didn’t, when you left them in the cold and stuffed behind closed doors to keep the screaming out. You remember it all, and wonder, if it could possibly still be all intact, just waiting for you behind that giant Tori Amos poster you hung to cover the massive holes that dotted your wooden door. Again, one foot in front of the other, you walk to take it all in, past baby brother’s room, not so baby anymore- you peek in to catch a glimpse of a scantily clad Britney Spears and hear Kid Rock blaring from the wireless headphones resting on his head. He’s fourteen now, you think, and keep walking. Standing there, right in front of your bedroom door, to your right is ‘their’ room. They you think. Who is they anymore? Who will they be in the future- mom, Jaime, and new baby? New mom, Jaime, and baby? Mom, king, and prince? Confusion, lost in that maze again, only this time, your inside and you can clearly see your way to the end.

You open the door, slowly, Patches slides through the door and rubs her furry little body against your leg. She’s your cat- and she’s still here, but you’re not. Not for her, not for anybody. You look down and she leaves you, without a second glance, walking toward the aroma of chicken and noodles in the kitchen, toward the new family that you lost when you lost interest. . . You open the door, expecting a rush of cold air from the lack of heat since you haven’t been back in so long, waiting to see an unmade bed you left three years ago and various high school items you chose to leave behind. As it opens, the smell of Johnson and Johnson overrides your senses, and the brite light that shines through a window that was rarely open when you made that place home nearly blinds you. You squint at its incandescence and see the outlines of a bassinet, a playpen, a toy box you remember as your own, but even now those memories are becoming so contorted you wonder now if they’re even real. You give up, close the door behind you, and run right back out the pine green door, down the tattered stairs that brought you stitches so many times as a child and across the street to the new car bought for Christmas—rev the engine and drive away, looking back to see an oblivious pregnant mother, holding a cigarette in one hand, the cordless phone in the other peering out the front door while in your head you could only see Zachary hiding in his room with the headphones on, just like you, so many years ago.