The House That Breathed

A Memorial

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Houses are peculiar things. They’re structures with walls and ceilings divided into sections called rooms. They come in all shapes, sizes, and colors. Some have one level, some two. The extraordinary ones might have three. If it can be designed, most likely it can be built.

What is it that makes a house peculiar? The answer is quite simple. There are houses and there are homes. Some may argue that to say such a thing is to split hairs. House, home. Same difference, right? On the contrary. The two are vastly different.

A house becomes a home when life enters its doors. Before that happens houses are dead things; empty shells with nothing to fill their bellies. The veins of their hallways are bloodless. Nothing flows to its rooms. There are no echoes of laughter or tears of sorrow in its deepest chambers. The empty house is just a box with no gift inside.

But a home? A home is alive. Sure, it may have once been a house, dark and void. Until one day, most likely after some kind soul paid a great fortune to obtain the empty house, life began. Life filled the emptiness.

It began with a fresh coat of Smokey Taupe paint on the inside walls and striking Pergo floors for feet to walk on. A checkerboard backsplash adorned the wall behind kitchen range. There wasn't enough money for newly tiled countertops, but there was enough for new energy efficient windows to keep the house warm in winter and cool in summer. A table and four chairs occupied the little dinette area to the side of the kitchen. A leather reclining sofa nestled itself against a wall, and a coffee table atop a machine washable area rug sat in front. Neatly cornered next to the sofa, separated by an end table, was The Chair, which for the greater part of the life of the house, is where the Woman would sit, the actual occupant who brought life into the house. More on her later. The dining room was turned into an office complete with a desk, Toshiba computer, paper shredder and bookshelves laden more with photographs than books. Though, to be completely honest, it did boast a few books. Mostly bibles. As for the Toshiba computer, it was never used, and only took up space.

Two bedrooms situated themselves at the back of the house. One, the main bedroom, had a beautiful four post, white iron bed. Meticulously selected furniture provided the perfect esthetic to match the occupants taste. A double sided closet served to contain an extensive wardrobe, neatly organized and hanging on velvet covered hangers. Needless to say, the closet was also needed for storing towels and boxes of odds and ends, as the house had no storage for those things.

The second bedroom, labeled the spare or guest room, did indeed have a daybed and dresser, as well as a closet. But, for the life of this house it only provided the use for which it was named a mere two times. For the rest of its years it became the “catch-all” of anything and everything that couldn’t find a place. Unboxed paintings, kitchen supplies, and all empty cardboard boxes from Amazon orders, haphazardly were tossed into the room and the door shut. Upon opening the door, one would usually exclaim, “Good Lord”, and proceed to shut it.

Yes, there was a garden with beautiful roses and a Japanese Maple tree, planted at the request of the occupant. These were living things to be sure. Yet they did not bring the life that would make the house breathe on the inside, and thus, become a home. This transpired when the One I’ve referred to as “the occupant”, who I will now refer to as the Mama and Nana, moved in all alone, bringing with her the sweet smells of laundry detergent and burnt toast and coffee in the morning. She brought shuffling slippers, tapping canes, and eventually the sound of the rubber wheels of her walker on the striking Pergo floors. She found herself content sitting in The Chair, watching the Game Show channel and HGTV, all day long if need be.

Still, she was lonely, so she adopted a dog; a barking white and black spotted thing which would quickly become her everything. Her reason for waking up in the morning. The little dog listened when the Mama talked, even when nobody else was around. And when she would sit in The Chair, the little dog would jump into her waiting arms, smother her with kisses on the tip of her nose, then curl up next to her, just as content as the Mama was to sit beside her dog, and the pair would nap the day away. The Mama would be remembered as saying she never knew she could love a dog so much. And the dog loved her back.

Family and friends would come for visits or to lend a helping hand to the Woman. Neighbors would wave hello when she’d sit out on her front porch. For eight years, the house breathed. The house became a home.

But, as with all living things, life ended for the Woman, the Mama, the Nana. The ending not only made for broken hearts and many tears, It also brought the inevitable end to the breath in the home. Slowly but surely, the home was emptied. Starting with the little dog, as dogs can’t be in a place where their loved one is no more. Clothing left next. Dishes and pictures were soon to follow. Hidden treasures were found in places one would never expect. Still, the scent of laundry detergent and toast lingered at the back door. Little by little, bit by bit, the home was emptied and swept clean. Only the table and four chairs remained in the dinette area for perspective. There were no more shuffling slippers or tapping canes. No more walker wheels. No more little dog curled up in The Chair with the Property Brothers playing softly in the background. Even the scents that so distinctly characterized the home were gone. Once again, the home stopped breathing and became a house. A house with Smokey Taupe painted walls and lovely Pergo floors, waiting for the day when it can breathe once more.