Home Again
By: Olivia Mckenna
Tags: Trauma, Home, Design, Home Again, Childhood

Driving down the neighborhood with the windows down and the radio playing, the cool winds sweeping up the newly fallen leaves off the large oak trees on either side of the road, it’s all too familiar. The children wrapped in unmovable clothing and rubber boots, their laughter being heard for miles. On the corner of the street is the pumpkin patch, so orange and festive. Then the intersection with the old crack in the street that hasn’t been fixed in years, holding last night’s rainfall. Each passing house’s television displaying Charlie Brown and living rooms filled with joy among each family gathering. At the end of the street the prettiest house, with a well kept yard, grand windows, and lace curtains-the house is a beauty. This house has been vacant and quiet for awhile as if the joyful laughter died out years ago. This house’s secrets lay on the inside. The true deception that no one could see from the perfect view outside.

Pulling into the driveway and remembering the countless nights of her running out barefoot to sit and cry about the arguing. Getting out and locking the car to see the small dent in the corner of the garage door where she hit it after coming home at two in the morning buzzed. The small crack in the corner now a home of an orangish red spider that is spinning around a newly caught butterfly. Walking to the front door and seeing the flaking chips of paint from where it was slammed so many times throughout the years. To the left of the door the flower pot, where at least once a week she’d lose her key and have to use the spare that was poorly taped onto the bottom of. When lifted up the key was still there after all these years, surprised it wasn’t taken or lost when everyone moved out. It was time now to go inside yet hesitantly the door creaked open. The darkness slowly pouring out into the neighborhood but to be stopped by gentle closure. The smell of whiskey, and vanilla candles filling the air. The candles were always the cover up for when people came over. She had learned how to use a lighter at age six just to keep the house pristine. In hopes to mask the problem at hand because she knew long term the problem would never be fixed. To the right was the dining table where everything began. To family dinners that were never civil, they were times of him wrecking her self esteem. She was never the perfect daughter he wanted but he was no perfect father either. Six o’ Clock dinners always had the stench of alcohol with them and rarely few did he act like himself. Looking out the window behind the dining table, seeing the clear difference of how new the bottom piece of glass is from the top. The bottom piece cleary have being replaced from the night he threw his snifter at the window when told about the divorce. That same night she snuck out to get away from their bickering, and getting picked up by who was not her boyfriend because she never had one but a boy who she cared more than anything about. She never talked about what happened that night she left but she didn’t return till the morning. Her mother standing at the front door when his car pulled up and her getting out wearing his clothes. Her mother was mad but knew there was no stopping her.

To the left of the window, the living room, a place for gathering and relaxation. The same dark leather sectional that was a sleeping ground for her father almost every night. Remembering how her mother would yell at him and lock him out of their bedroom. That same year it had got so bad she got the locks changed and kicked him out. Her mother eventually would let him back everytime after he said he has changed. Her daughter knowing well to none that he hasn’t changed and then the cycle repeats. Her Mother dealt with a lot and the contemplation of divorce took her a very long time to be ready for. She was a stay at home wife and he was a drunken lawyer, yet she had to do what was right for her daughter. From the couch was the television, a twenty inch flatscreen that always played Fox News, all year round. Remembering every night when she’d get home from practice and hearing Tucker Carlson talk about Trump or Clinton ninety percent of the time. Slight right of the television was a staircase that led to the rooms. Going up the light amber wood stairs that ached when walked on to see the pictures on the wall and the small dust mites that have attracted to the frames to high to reach without a ladder. The very top step leading to the spread of four rooms. The only room worth going into was the one at the end. Straight center from the last step, the hallway seeming like an unbearably long distance to the door.

The slow steps to the door remembering every day she’d pace back and forth down the hallway when she heard her parents fighting. She always wanted to help but was continuously dismissed and looked down upon by her parents. To the arrival of the door, reflecting on the pure life that lives behind it. The twist of the silver plated knob and a small hault, the door opens to the display of her room. Exactly like remembered too. Pretty white sheets, a window that opens to the side of the roof, a fully stocked and organized closet. The smell of a coconut Sex Wax air freshner that’s meant for cars but there was always two hanging on the end rod of the curtains. The endless memories that fill this room. Walking over to the window and moving the slightly yellowed curtains to one side and seeing the view of the street. The countless times of her opening the window and sitting on the roof with her friends. Always hoisting up one of her friends who would park on the corner of the street at two in the morning to come hangout with her. He was always good to her and she knew that. They would sit and look at the stars, She’d talk about moving out, or how she wishes life was different but they’d always smoke. They both knew it wasn’t good but they both didn’t care because they knew there were worse things to be doing. Turning around from the window lays her bed. The bed looking like it just got made, and feels just as it did twenty years ago. Laying down and turning to the left gazing on the soul that grew up here. All eighteen years that she lived here, what a time it was for her. Always feeling bad for her but she turned out better than anyone expected. Getting up from her bed and taking one more long breath it was time to leave.

Closing her door, walking down the stairs, through the living room and across the dining room back to the front door. With one last look around the secrets were locked back inside. A step down the old porch stairs and gaze at a pretty red ladybug on the lawn, a tear rolls down. Walking past the garage with the orangish red spider whose captive butterfly is now fully wrapped, the car door shuts and the engine turned on. Backing up from the driveway of that pretty light blue house at the end of the street, driving away and now watching the house in the mirror as it slowly vanishes. That was a special house, it was the house that raised me.