My Parents' House

I've just spent the past two days at my parents' house, formerly known as the confines of my adolescent youth. It is so relaxing here I wonder why I ever left. The daytime here is absolutely calm and docile. The nighttime is even better. Today I actually had to remind myself to walk slower, talk about less important topics, and focus on the taste of food.

In fact, I just spent the past hour sitting outside on the front porch looking out at my old stomping grounds. After the many months and years I've spent on that porch, I could probably draw the landscape from memory. I remember the shape and color of trees despite the changing seasons. Even at night, every porch light and star is familiar to me in both color and brightness. Sometimes places are so familiar that they are like friendly ghosts one can sit with and visit. And honestly, while I was lying down in the driveway staring up at the stars, I actually did talk to them. I don't really know why.

I know this place so well. I know the sound and texture of every door and lock in this house. Thanks to my high school adventures, I know how navigate every obstacle between the front door and my room without making a sound. I can even do it in the dark, seriously. I know the angle at which the screen door squeaks, the creakiest portions of the wood floor, and the amount of twist to apply to the door knob without hearing it open. I've never felt so comfortable in bare feet.

I can actually retrace my life according to what I see here. The one stop light in town used to be just a stop sign when I first arrived here at four years old. The dirt lot on the corner was paved for a supermarket when I was six. Our house was built when I was nine. I helped my dad put in our sprinkler system at ten. A faulty rope swing and I broke a branch off of the nearby oak tree when I was eleven. The 30 foot cottonwood tree in our backyard fell victim to my lawnmowing skills when it was only one foot high. I chopped it down to grass level again about two months later. My dad was pissed, but I now brag about how it is the tallest tree in our yard.

I put those rocks there, that tree there, and painted this side of the house. I know where every sprinkler pipe is laid out under the lawn, and I can still see the burnt holes in the wood siding that suffered the stare of my magnifying glass. Sometimes I feel like this place knows me better than I know myself. I guess the same can be said about my parents, but I hate saying that. I feel comfortable around the things I know so well. I guess they know me too, but they never make any demands of me despite that advantage. I love that, and I guess I love this place because of it.