House Tour

Again, I go first. Ha ha. Ugh. So I took the prompt and kind of followed it. The rumination doesn't necessarily happen during the guided tour, and isn't as expansive as it could be if I were not working under the constraint of not using a certain word...or maybe that wouldn't change anything. This character/concept is something that I have been messing around with since the summer and do want to get into better shape. So kudos to JK for the prompt choice:)

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The last time I ventured out, it was to meet my mother for a tour of one of the historic neighborhoods in the area. For $25 we were given access to the living rooms and gardens of the stately, set back from the road, houses that belong to people with more money than most everyone I used to know. When I was younger, anytime my mother and I were in the car together, she would take the long route home just so she could pass these estates. She would ask me which was my favorite, and I would always point to a Victorian house on a corner lot, painted lavender with sage trim around the railings and windows. There were planters on the steps, and rocking chairs on the wrap-around porch, and I imagined myself corseted, with my hair up in one of those elaborate buns of the era, sipping tea and waiting for suitors. Mom preferred a house a few blocks down, composed mainly of brick, with large stained glass windows in the front, and ivy growing up one side of the house.

The tour was led by a perky retiree who clearly enjoyed the power of having so many keys in her possession and smelled faintly of cinnamon toast. She referred to the owners of the different houses by their first names, and provided little anecdotes about how a room came to be painted a certain color, or the amount of money spent to remodel a kitchen. Mom and the others on the tour exclaimed at window dressings, upholstery, gas ranges and hardwood floors. I looked at framed family photographs and commissioned portraits, imagining the secrets behind these pristine presentations of home.

We did stop at my former fantasy house. I sat on the porch, watching the others admire shrubs or meander through the parlor room. I had a few quick flashes throughout the day, but extremely fragmentary ones. My best friend in third grade, Sally, remembered making pancakes in my kitchen, and how illicit it felt to be up before my parents. Billy thought about our trip to Greece, and the feel of my hands on his shoulders and my breasts against his chest as we floated, loosely entwined, in the crystal blue waters of the Mediterranean. A girl I babysat once remembered my showing her what happened when you mixed baking powder and vinegar together. In a particularly jarring moment, as I was sitting on that house’s porch and she was inside with the rest of the group, Mom recalled our drives and my fondness for the house she was exploring.

These recollections were not overly disruptive to me. Sally hardly ever thinks of me, and when she does it’s always with a fondness I would reciprocate if I knew how. Billy can be a little more troubling. I have become accustomed to the way his flashes feel. It’s almost worse when he stumbles upon a time like Greece. When he relives the time I threw a shoe at his head, or called his brother a pompous jerk, it’s quite difficult not to then think about all the other uncharitable or insensitive actions I made during our relationship. Though it is hard to constantly face the worst of my character, I find it far more difficult to be reminded of my own former happiness. Mom also can have this effect on me, bringing to the fore the adjusted person I used to be. It breaks my heart that my meeting her for lunch at a Qdoba five years ago could, for her, be considered an example of ‘the good old days.’ She considers these relatively banal interactions precious, and there is nothing I can do to explain without giving her even more to worry about. I have attempted to fade from all my former friends’ lives in an effort to decrease the flashes (out of sight, out of mind) but I cannot break up with my mother. Each time we meet, I know I’ll see the experience again, at some point, from my mother’s perspective, and it will hurt. I will wince at her fear over the direction my life seems to have taken. Even when she has moved on to another topic, my day will be spent trying to shake off that residual worry she feels whenever she thinks of me.