The Tour

My house consists of three bedrooms, a bathroom, kitchen, and living room. They are all connected by a river of hardwood and an occasional flurry of Italian tile. It is not a large home. I wouldn’t even say it is in the midland territory. It is small. I love it. When I step into the house it wraps me up with its close quarters and when Ty is there, we are wrapped up together.
There is a glow that permeates through the place. I think it comes from the shine of the hardwoods and the sun which escapes the outdoors to rest on our walls and furniture. It is picturesque, and I am still smitten. Familiarity has not bred contempt but rather an increased appreciation of every angle and every dot of color that paint our home. I do not write this to brag or give airs. I imagine everyone must feel this sense about the place they live. The place where the world need not enter, nor its contentions. In a home, the world is merely the colors that trace and fill each window. A picture. The world is a dream and in your home, you live.

My living room is where I love to linger. A brick fireplace climbs one of its walls giving natural warmth that requires no additions. It is simple, yet striking. Sometimes a fire will dance in this cave of red brick, like a scene from a children’s Christmas book. All that is missing are the stockings. I lose myself in that dance.
On the mantle of the fireplace are five small votives. (I have determined that if I ever wanted to ‘off’ five people, I would snuff out each candle, one by one, as each person fell, thereby adding to the foreboding doom that would no doubt be hanging thickly. The effect would be better than china dolls I suspect). Cozied up to the fireplace is a white built-in bookshelf where ideas, references and dreams are stored. Chesterton, Lewis, Tolkein, and Steinbeck are all among the inhabitants of its shelves. Oh the debates they must have!
The furniture in the living room consists of a loveseat, couch and TV—all circling each other as one amiable set with a red-and-sage-toned rug planted right in the middle of it all. Two cushioned leather cubes are posted at each corner of the rug, offering support for weary feet and tired legs.
Behind the loveseat there is a large picture window which flushes the room with light in various sizes of rectangular shards. I love that window. It serves my voyeuristic tendencies, allowing me to pear out into the world through the white plantation slits, while remaining relatively immune from the gazes of others. A man walking his two dogs—he comes this way often. Two women jogging together and chatting—a feat I do not understand. The neighbor pulling into his driveway in the white mini-van—always opening the doors of that van, even when the family isn’t going anywhere… Does it smell or something?
The bathroom is next. It is a small room with half of its space monopolized by the bathtub lounging in the back. There is a mini-window above the tub which I adore. On its ledge rest two aqua blue candles that are just transparent enough to allow the sunlight to illuminate their wax. The sink is pedestal—classy but hardly practical and the walls are painted a fresh tropical green. The only painting project to have yet been attempted. It is a breath of fresh air—and if not, well there is some scented air freshener on top of the toilet!
In our bedroom there is a big, white bed. It is a cloud. It feels like a cloud. I am always late to work.
Next to the bedroom is our office, where I am currently residing. There is one book shelf which holds magazines, cds, and the like. Ty is here too and has presently planted himself in front of our desktop computer. He has great big headphones covering his ears and seems intent on killing everyone on the screen. I tell myself that he is saving the world, but who really knows. Whatever he is trying to accomplish, I wish him all the best. I am sitting on an Ikea Poang chair with my feet propped up on the accompanying ottoman. This spot is second only to the living room. Unless it’s a Saturday morning, in which case, our bed races to the top every time.
The third bedroom is our closet. It usually is covered with clothes by midweek and stays that way until Saturday when all the clothes get picked up so we can go through the fun of tossing them back on the ground all over again.
Now to the place with the food. The best part about our kitchen is the row of four windows that open up to the backyard. Light is never lacking in this little cooking nook. Our counters consist of big, grey tile slabs that nicely offset the swatches of red that are sprinkled through the décor. Our appliances are stainless steel, which adds a restaurant quality to the overall look, and Italian tile covers the floor. It is a cozy kitchen—many chickens have met their final end here. Not that we slaughtered them, but we ate them—which seems final enough.
And that is my home, if mere words can contain it. You see, I’m pretty sure words can describe a house, but a home—that is another thing entirely. I still seem to have fallen short in articulating what that fascination and wonder is all about when I step through my front door and feel light—when I get distracted by the arrangement and color of books on a bookshelf and the shadows of dancing tree branches that bring our bedroom wall alive in the morning.
I don’t really feel I need to explain it, enough people probably know it more thoroughly than I do.
It is new to me though.
I am still swimming in its wonder.