Growing up in my house was like living in a museum. There was not a spec of dust anywhere. ANYWHERE.
It was immaculate.
Saturdays were spent shining the brass until your fingers were green. Walls were wiped down. Everything must smell of Pine Sol or bleach mixture. The austere quietness was like being enslaved behind white brick walls. Shoes must be taken off, no walking on the carpet and you must never EVER sit on the couch! Everything laid in perfect order. I couldn’t wait to leave that place.
That institution. Beautiful home but no warmth. Lovely things but no friends. God forbid you should cough or sneeze in there, she’ll spray you down with Lysol (true story).
Now that I have my own place to call home, I would rather let the dishes sit in the sink, let the dust pile, let chaos reign. Until one day it gets to be annoying then I clean like crazy. I’d rather spend my time with the people I love, the books that give me escape, music that spins my soul into a dance.
My father came to visit once. I almost panicked at the evidence that a toddler resides here; that this a home where people actually live. I looked around and realized, this is my home, not a museum. This was me, all around. He’ll either accept me now or never. And as we said our goodbyes, he smiled and said, “Nice house!” I was overwhelmed with joy. I was enough. I was accepted. It was a beautiful feeling.
Seve and I get into some crazy moments. I can’t stand the clutter by his many piles, he can’t stand dishes in the sink. I can’t stand unruly carpet stains, he doesn’t like folding clothes. It gets crazy managing the upkeep of the house, but I always remember that one moment and it sustains me.