I finally stand back and look at the wall.

After a painstaking hour of detail-work and two of intense physical activity – up down up down – I have finally managed to turn the walls from a deep grey-blue to a pale yellow, what the old man at Home Depot described as ‘cream puff’. I drop the roller brush on the plastic tarpaulin, carefully laid to protect the new hardwood floors, and wipe a hand on my bare leg. Wet paint streaks across my thigh. I consider it for a moment, but who’s going to see? I’m just at home all day today.

It’s only 2:45, I should get some more done. I look around at the boxes, trying to determine which one will be the least painful to unpack. I’ve only been in my new apartment for about three days, but already I am starting to see hints of home, proliferating like new life amidst the chaos. A mug is perched on the edge of the sink – should I wash that? – the dregs of my morning coffee abandoned. A pile of books sits in a careful stack on the floor. The photos from my second trip to Europe are framed and ready to be hung up. Eventually.

My phone rings, and I answer it. My mother is curious to know if I’ve finished painting the walls.

“Yeah, mom, I just finished the last coat a second ago. It took forever, but it was worth it.”

She squeals in that overly-excited way that my mother is prone to, and for a just moment I miss her so intensely that my stomach twists around itself, even though it’s only been seventy-two hours since I last saw her.

“I’m so glad! You have to send me pictures! I can’t wait to see it. Remember when we painted your room?”

“Yeah, I do,” I say, remembering the chip in the paint located at about dog-height. “We had only just finished painting when Blake came and knocked something over.”

“That crazy dog! He was just a puppy then,” my mother says, emotion clouding her voice.

“How did the things with the realtors go?” I ask.

“Good, good. The new people signed the papers, so it’s all good to go! Now dad and I just need to find a place to live,” she says, laughing.

I picture the house that, up until only three days ago, was my home. The black nail polish stain on the carpet from a slumber party gone wrong. The maps I hung up at fifteen, the edges curling in on themselves as if they are hiding. The bookshelves crammed full of books, books that are now sitting in boxes all around me. I wonder how the new owners will renovate my room. I wonder for how much longer I’ll remember these details. I wonder if you can wallpaper over fifteen years of memories.

“That’s good! I’m sure that you guys will have no problem finding a place. It only took me a week to find this one,” I say, glancing out of the glass sliding door that, by some stroke of serendipity, is the same model I had at home. I notice that it’s snowing. I realize that I have yet to solve the puzzle that is the heating system in this house and I grimace, remembering the news article warning of an intense cold snap.

“I hope you’re right. Anyways, I have a call in a few minutes. Do you need dad to come and help you with anything?”

Yes, probably.

“No, that’s okay. I’m sure I can figure it out.”

“Alright. We’ll see you soon!” she says, and hangs up.

I put my phone back on the mantle, then sit down in the middle of the floor. Suddenly I have no more energy, no will to continue the long process of unpacking. I just want to lie down on the sofa, maybe watch a movie – but of course, there is no sofa yet. Nor is there a television. They are tucked safely away in other rooms, stripped of their purpose but protected from paint splatter.

The rest of the afternoon stretches before me. I realize that I can do whatever I want. There is no one else here to stop me. But what is there to do? My entire life has been placed in cardboard boxes and taped firmly shut.

I get back up, stretch. There’s a knot forming in my shoulders, and I imagine the hot shower I will take later in an effort to relax my muscles. I’ll go for a walk, I decide, picturing the cozy bakery a few blocks away. I’ll get a nice loaf of sourdough and I’ll come home and make some garlic bread. The thought of this comforts me, so I navigate through a sea of flattened boxes and detritus to the bedroom, my bedroom, to change out of my painting uniform.

The lady at the bakery gives me the loaf for free, and her kindness almost makes me cry.

I struggle to hold the loaf, my wallet, and my phone as I shuffle through the various keys on my key ring, trying to find the one that will open my door. When I finally get it, I stumble through the door, tracking snow through the threshold.

I place the loaf on my kitchen counter. I can hear my upstairs neighbour vacuuming, though it takes me a moment to place the sound. Other than that, my new building is peaceful.

The house and I stand in silence, almost in communion.

“Welcome home,” it says.

 

Works Cited

Francis, Gemma. “Sixty per Cent of Adults Consider Childhood Residence True Home, Poll Finds.” The Independent, Independent Digital News and Media, 3 May 2018, www.independent.co.uk/life-style/childhood-house-true-home-adults-poll-nostalgia-memories-origin-a8334891.html.