an ode to my grandmother’s house written when my family made the hard decision to put it up for sale. a place that a grew up visiting and lived in briefly. an examination of what meaningful places can become when the language of capitalism must be applied to them. transcription under the cut
Rental Facts And Features
Bedrooms and Bathrooms:
In the eighties, my grandfather built a fourth bedroom onto the back of the house – without a permit. This became my room when we moved in after he died. There was no insulation; it was boiling in the summer and freezing in the winter. But the walls were lined with bookshelves stuffed full with first editions and vintage fashion magazines, and the dust from the aging tomes shimmered so perfectly in the sunlight. My bedroom smelled like a library and felt like a refuge out of time.
The only way for me to access the bathroom, or to leave my room at all for that matter, was through my brother’s room, disturbing his privacy. We were at each other’s throats those days like never before – and rarely since.
Flooring:
My grandmother always told me if I didn’t wear socks around the house I’d catch a cold – an old superstition. She was adamant about it. But I liked the feeling of the hardwood and the stone-tiled stairs under my feet.
Heating/Cooling:
We moved in with her in August, the temps were record high – as they’ve been every August since. She had only just installed AC about a year prior, and loathed to use it. We all fought nonstop about it. None of us knew just how good we had it then. How could we?
Appliances:
Before the remodel that happened after she passed, the stove used to face the kitchen table. It may have not been the most modern placement, but it meant that whoever was cooking could converse easily with the people they were about to feed. The kitchen used to be lively – rich orange accents and checkered tile – packed far too full for its size with family all trying to help.
Construction:
They’re calling it a single-family home – which is true – and they’re saying it’s two stories – not so true. Under that roof, it didn’t matter if you were auntie, cousin, great, grand, first, or half. At its fullest when we were stacked on top of each other, elbow to elbow at the longest make-shift table, what else could we be but one single family? The house breathed and lived and loved with us. The stories were never-ending, branching off from each other to birth new ones, all of them warm and familiar and ours.
Community and Neighborhood:
Yes. Oh, yes. Abuelita made enough nacatamales to feed the whole street. My grandmother carried on the tradition as long as she could. Everything is rosier in the rearview, isn’t it? It wasn’t perfect, it couldn’t have been. We weren’t always happy, the memories weren’t all good. The floorboards creaked and the windows rattled, something was always breaking, and that back door was always getting stuck. But we packed it to the gills for Nochebuena and my grandfather’s wake and it was like it stretched open to infinity just to accommodate the depth of our love for one another. Now we’re all fragmentation and frustration and the rich brown wood paneling has been stripped to make way for beige paint.
It feels like just an hour ago I was falling asleep in the afternoon sunlight across the foot of her bed. Now I’m awake and the sun has set and the room is dark and cold. Where did my day go?
