I used to babysit for this family that lived near my grandparents. I remember being somewhat enamored with their home. It was this gorgeous big old farmhouse. There was a mudroom entry way off the garage, like the ones you see in Better Homes & Gardens magazine, complete with cubbies and hooks and a bench with a cushion. It opened into the kitchen on one side and into the foyer with the front door on the other end. Both points of entry led into the kitchen. And the kitchen? Was amazing. There were endless counter tops and beautiful cabinets in a warm wood finish, a gigantic island in the middle, and a breakfast nook with big windows to let in the morning light. The living room, off the kitchen, was big, yet still cozy, with comfy over-sized couches, a fireplace, a piano, and some chairs & tables arranged along the bank of windows overlooking the backyard and a to-die-for view. Right near the doorway from the kitchen were these heavy wooden double doors that, when pushed open, revealed the formal dining room, with its table that seemed to stretch forever, and a sideboard and hutch that had likely been in the family for ages.
Behind the living room was a hallway that led to the office and a bathroom, and a staircase leading to the bedrooms. At the top of the stairs, you'd find the kids' two bedrooms, not very big, but still just the right size for having your own space, and at the far end of the hall was the master bedroom suite, with double doors, that created a private sanctuary out of the bedroom I could fit my entire apartment into, not counting the reading nook with its smaller version of the fireplace below, the spacious bathroom and the two walk-in closets. The doors were always wide open when I was there, and the room was always impeccably decorated & cleaned. The floors throughout the house were shiny hardwood with perfectly placed rugs to soften it & provide warmth in the chill of Winter. The walls were painted in rich warm country colors, yet were never overpowering.
What truly fascinated me, though, were two things: All the built-in nooks and shelves and drawers and cabinets tucked into the most opportune places. Not an inch of space seemed wasted, and yet it was never "too much." And the *second* staircase, the one leading up from the kitchen. At the top of the steps, you could turn right, follow the hall, and find yourself right outside the master bedroom, but if you turned *left*, you would pass a door to the attic, a bathroom, and the guest room. There was a door in the hallway that could be closed so that the bedroom and bathroom became like their own private little apartment. But it was the existence of the second staircase that so captivated me.
Once the children were in bed for the night, I would wander slowly through the house, soaking in its beauty. I never opened anything that was closed or poked my nose into things where it did not belong. I simply ambled aimlessly through the halls & rooms, admiring & wondering what it was like to live in such a beautiful structure, so very unlike the house where my Gram & Gramp lived, with its linoleum kitchen floor, red carpet that had been there longer than I had been alive, and its one lonely staircase.
The farmhouse was, and I am sure remains, quite lovely, but it is in that smaller home, to which I compared that sprawling farmhouse, that my mind often wanders, recreating the layout, inch by precious inch, that I find infinitely more beautiful now. The details of that home are what spring to my mind as I hear Miranda Lambert singing:
You leave home,
You move on,
And you do the best you can
I got lost in this whole world
And forgot who I am
I thought if I could touch this place or feel it
This brokenness inside me might start healin'
Out here it's like I'm someone else
I thought that maybe I could find myself
If I could just come in I swear I'll leave,
Won't take nothin' but a memory
From the house that built me
Nearly four years after the fact, I no longer feel broken inside. Healing has taken place, and I am whole and strong and filled with a golden joy--that would seem silly to speak of, this "golden joy," if I didn't truly feel it the way I do, and so it doesn't seem silly to me, only something for which I am deeply and eternally grateful--and I actually feel more like myself than I have possibly since I was last in my grandparents' home. I don't want to go back to fix myself or recover anything that has been lost. I just have this burning desire to walk through, one last time. To let my eyes wander & settle on the walls. To run my hand one more time along the railing. To stare out the windows, seeing not what stands there now, but filmstrips of days in my past that took place there. To soak in the million intangible memories that dance at random through my mind.
"If I could just come in, I swear I'll leave, won't take nothin' but a memory...
...from the house that built me."
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