Home

It was a year ago.  At the tender age of 45, I was making an offer on my first house.  It’s a cape cod in a blue collar neighborhood two blocks away from the high school.  It’s in the shape of an L with a front facing gable to book end the long pitch.  The listing said it has four bedrooms.  Technically they were right, but at 1100 square feet finished, that was being generous.  You shouldn’t live in this house if you’re over 5’10”.  Aside from the kitchen and living room, it has one “master” bedroom, one small bedroom and two offices.  That’s ok.  It’s just us two.  It’s only ever going to be us two… and the cats.

When we moved in, we painted the living room purple.  There are shelves with books on serial killers, drug addicted rock stars.  There are more shelves with skulls and unicorns sitting on them.  There are lamps made out of pipes sitting on mid century modern end tables.  Because we can.

Because of where it sits, there are no true next door neighbors, but the neighbor who’s yard borders ours has some years there.  He said the guy who lived here last was a bachelor who inherited the house from his parents and lived here his entire life.  I discovered he was a scientist with the lawn. His body was in one of the “offices” for a week before they found him.  If that sounds sad, I’m not sure why.  I wouldn’t mind dying in my own house. I just hope his passing  wasn’t painful.  What family he had sold off the house and it was refurbed.  That’s what the realtors say when they mean flipped.  That’s ok too.  We wanted something move in ready.

I didn’t do this for me.  I did it for her.  She’s 17 years younger than me.  She needs a place to call her own.  At my age, I’m at the point where I realize you don’t really own anything.  The terms of rent are what changes. While I’m borrowing this place, I’m hoping to make some memories here.