Recently, I’ve been thinking what my dog would say if she could talk.What she would say to me, my mom, my bird, etc. Mainly because I miss her and was wondering if she misses me too. Yet, I came to realize my dog, while extremely cute, is an idiot and would probably just ask for more food. My house, however, I feel like its story would be one worth listening.
If my house could talk, it would tell me the story of my mom and I visiting it in 2004, and how much I hated it. It didn’t have the purple tree that I wanted so dearly. It would tell you that although it wasn’t our first choice because of the butterfly wallpaper in the bathroom, flower wallpaper in the kitchen, and blue carpet, it had everything we needed so we bought it.
It would tell you of the days we spent painting. My aunt, mom, sister and I took on multiple rooms of that house. Painting bedroom walls purple and yellow, and my mom tidying up the house before move in. It would tell you of my neighbors coming to the door to greet us and the song they sang to us. While neither of us can remember the words to the song, the gesture will be long remembered.
It would tell you of the day we moved in. Its walls hadn’t heard a child laugh in ages and the soft laughter of my two-year-old sister as she navigated the house made it feel young again. As I marched through the house with a sense of urgency, guiding everyone carrying boxes of toys, clothes, and furniture to where they need to go. They adorn sloppily scribbled phrases of “kitchen items” and “Alicia’s toys” written by me in sharpie. After we had put boxes in their places, made beds, and put pillows on couches, we made our way outside, used our fridge and stove for the first time and the house was finally becoming ours.
It would tell you of how I tore off that ugly butterfly wallpaper and blamed it all on my sister. It would be our little secret. It would tell you how black paint ended up all over my sister’s carpet and I actually took the blame for that one.
It would tell you the story of the day we got my dog. As my sister had gotten a bit older she had stopped screaming and crying over everything. Now we had a puppy. A crazy dog who would instead of scream, would bark at every fallen leaf and squirrel she saw. How she was afraid of ceiling fans and would chew on the door stops that we didn’t notice until there was a hole in the wall.
It would tell you of all of the friends I gained and lost in that house. Some friends would come and go but others were over every day for years and then they would be gone. It would be able to tell you of every Hannah Montana or Say Yes to the Dress marathon, to sleepovers and late night walks to the kitchen for chocolate covered pretzels.
It would tell you all of the bad things. From the hour-long fights and screaming matches that happened far too often. It would tell you of the times I snuck out of my house or got back past curfew. It would tell you of the night my mom walked out and was gone for the week. It would tell you about every tear my pillow came to know.
But most importantly it would tell you that within those 4 brick walls, a family was built, tested, and made it out alive. And if that’s not something to be proud of, I don’t know what is.