everything else: walls, etc.
dear internet,
in the house i grew up in, which is the house my father grew up in—a house that grew with us, over the years sprouting a bedroom, an extra flight of stairs—in this house there are blue crayon marks pressed into the spaces between my bathroom tile, from when we were children and would draw on the walls. there are to-do lists of ages past clinging valiantly to my bedroom door: bid for modules. sharpies? chargers! there's a drawerful of the mix cds i used to burn and listen to on my discman while studying, or in the car. cracks in our walls and stains from monsoon rain. it's summer, so my bathroom door has grown too big for its frame. on the inside of my sister's closet door is the ancient, explanatory post-it, the bathroom door doesn't lock, sorry!
for the last so many years this has been the house i stayed in until i left. always a countdown in my head to the night i would get on a plane and fly off to college, to a job in another city. always a careful accumulation of the memories i needed to make before the next leaving: the favourite food, the ritual re-reads. now i am in my room, responding to emails at the table my parents bought when they started playing bridge. no return ticket, yet. my plants in another city unwatered. a crow lives in the neem tree at my window, its call a taunting three-note chuckle, disrupting my work. last night i dreamt my sister back in the bed next to mine. i can't remember the last time i inhabited this house in the present tense.
love,
t