My Home.

When I grow up, I am going to live in a big house. This house will be white or grey or blue or hot violet; the colour doesn't matter. It'll be located miles from a town, with only a few neighbours. I'll have a big open kitchen with old wood floors. My children will run through it with muddy bare feet and grass stains on their knees. They'll try to sneak some of what's cooking for dinner, but I'll shoo them out to go play in our open hilly backyard. They will run across this yard, the freshly mowed grass sticking to their feet, and into the woods in the back. They'll explore and hunt and adventure in these woods, playing in the river that runs through it, fishing during the summer. The woods will be miles upon miles long, so they can adventure for their entire childhood without ever experiencing the terrible feeling of the other side of the woods; it's never as magical as they imagined it would be.


My daughter will have her own room; my sons will share one. My husband and I will have our own cozy room at the end of the large hall upstairs, away from the other rooms. My daughter's room will change, from when she is a baby, a young girl, a teenager. In this room she will write in her diary, draw pretty pictures, dream of escapes, pretend not to be talking on the phone to a certain boy on school nights. She'll go through messy phases and neat phases. Her corkboard will be covered with pictures of those she loves, her windows wide open, inviting the summer night in to comfort her when she is not well. She'll do homework and have sleepovers and sneak cans of soda under her bed. This will be her sanctuary.
My boys will be close, or perhaps not. They'll fight and wrestle and create forts in their bedroom. The cat will insist on sleeping with them, even though they do mean things to it. When they're young, this is the place they will throw tantrums; when they're teenagers, perhaps they'll try sneaking in the occasional girl at night when they think they won't get caught. They'll get a television for Christmas and play video games on it, at least during the time they're allotted. Perhaps they will have shelves upon shelves of books... Maybe these shelves will grow with dust. Rock music blares in the afternoons, feet stomping and fingers caressing space with their air guitars. And when they grow older, the sound of guitar strings being plucked will travel down the stairs, throughout the house.

I am not sure if this is the fantasy of my adulthood, or the wish for my childhood. Perhaps is my childhood. Maybe it's my childrens' childhood... Or their childrens'. Maybe it was my parents' or a friend's. Perhaps this dream will never come true.... Or maybe it will. I guess only time can be certain.

Whatever the case, I will keep dreaming.

g h o s t i e

(Images from HouseBeautiful)