Still My House

I drive passed my house every time I go back to my hometown. It's still my house. It looks just the same: white siding, brick base, red shutters, red garage door, and a big red door. There are still cracks in the doorstep and a place ready for a garden off the walk-way. There are two big lumps on the uneven driveway and a small, black lamp-post on the edge of the yard by the road that no one ever notices until you point it out.

Nothing's changed since I left.

If only I could walk through the front door one more time. I bet it would look the same. The awful faux-tile of the entrance way hasn't been changed in the 40 some years the house has been there – “Why would we change it?” Dad always said, “It's as good as new!” The closet doors to the left are just as old as the tile on the floor. Dark, horizontal panels that never quite hid your eyes in a game of hide-and-go-seek. That's where my parents coats and shoes went. The kids closet, as we called it, was in behind the back wall of the entrance way, beside the door to the garage and the door to the back yard. It was always spilling out with snow suits and rubber boots, umbrellas and all the gear we needed to play in our big back yard.

You can see the big tree in the back yard from the back door by the kids closet too. All the neighbourhood kids would come over and swing on the huge, thick rope we had attached to the lowest branch (which happened to be about 12 feet off the ground easily). The old wooden door probably still whistles in the wind keeping the new occupiers awake late at night. The garage door always gave a cold and musty draft, especially on the coldest nights of the winter.

I'd love to see what's changed since I left. If I could only pull into the driveway, turn off my car, and walk up the doorsteps like I had done all my life. I'd jiggle the key in the big red door and walk inside like nothing had changed. Not even the hangings on the wall.