#son material

As Amarine stood outside the small house he’d been directed to, he paused in confusion. The owner of the house was like his second mother, and while she wasn’t particularly flamboyant or dramatic, he still expected something… more. The little house looked more like a shack than the abode of the flamboyant woman who had once told him that her favorite color was “red like the color of my mother’s brick after my siblings and I washed it on a whim one summer afternoon.”

The outside of the house was covered in strips of white, peeling paint, revealing the brown outside of the walls within. As he walked in, the door protested loudly, screeching on un-oiled hinges. The tile inside was a dusty brown color, though it was difficult to tell if this was the tile’s original state or the result of dirt and age. The cabinets were a darker shade of brown, sticking up from the ground and out from the wall as though they had been placed lackadaisically by an uncaring hand. The counter, in contrast, shone a dazzling white that seemed the antithesis of the rest of the kitchen. The appliances hummed lowly from the corners they’d been crammed into. A window gave desperately needed light to the scene, and the dark gray of the walls tried its hardest to limit the brightness of the beams shining from the outside world. As he walked beyond the last set of cabinets, the tile abruptly gave way to brown-black carpet which had once held a beautiful design but had faded into a mere suggestion of color contrast. The walls were surprisingly bare, and hardly reflected the bright personality of the woman he knew to live in it. A small, worn sofa had been placed under a window, it’s fabric a bright red color that almost hurt the eyes in this monotonous space. A dirty white pillow perched precariously on one of the sofa arms, it’s use indicated by the head-shaped indention near the bottom. Next to the sofa, an end table waited patiently, offering a small space to use for activities such as eating and relaxing. In contrast to the old, weary feeling of the rest of the space, a brand new TV sat atop a small set of drawers, large and dominating. Beneath it was a speaker and a shoe box with colorful markings that seemed the work of a small child. It sat proudly in it’s place of honor, sticking out in the same way the red sofa did.

A couple of feet away from the TV was a hallway, barely big enough for Ama to fit. On it’s right side were two doors, and on the left, just one. As he opened the first door to the right, he noticed that it was a playroom, bright and full of toys and memories, with the clear marks of a child evident in the white fingerprints on the wall and the dirty but well-loved toys stuffed haphazardly into a small toy bin. On the floor was a black-and-yellow rug that had the letters of the alphabet on it, though it was heavily stained from use and parts of it had faded. The walls were painted a cheery yellow color, and on the furthest wall from Ama’s position in the doorway was a small desk with a picture on top. Though he tried to make out the image, the light from the small window above it was too dim, revealing only a vaguely person-shaped brown, black, and red blob on a green background. He wanted to move into the room and inspect it more, but he felt as though he were intruding on a scene that wasn’t meant for him. Instead, he closed the door, stepping back out into the cramped hallway.

The door on the left was a small and rather bare bathroom. As Ama opened it, he noted the lack of space between the sink and the wall, and briefly shuddered at the thought of having to go to the restroom inside that space. The light made everything yellow and dirty and was placed in a way that made the shower stall seem menacing. He closed the door quickly and stepped back into the hallway.

So, process of elimination dictated that his pseudo-aunt had to be behind the last door, then, right? She’d promised to be home when he’d arrived. He made his way over to the last door and prepared to knock. Before he could, however, it swung open, and she stood there, smiling, with her arms open.

“Tama-Tamarindo!” She greeted, her nickname for him ever since she’d claimed it was ‘similar enough to his name and reminded me of eating candy in summer.’ “How are you?”