writing exercise #51: I dreamed of a house

I dreamed of a house. The porch wrapped around, east to south to west. The front of house faced east, the kitchen just inside. I need the morning light for making breakfast, my favorite meal. I stood inside, whisking egg yolks into flour as the waffle iron heated. Beyond the kitchen was the dining room, sliding doors separating it from the outside, easy enough to throw open on sunny days of which there were many. We placed platters on the table inside, plates and hefty silverware on the end, let the guests pile food buffet-style, then ate in the fresh air, admiring the blue of the sky, the pink of the roses trellising up the porch corner, the gold of the homemade honey wine that caused cheeks to flush, giggles to emerge and couples to linger as the sun settled beyond the orange trees.

A living room off the dining area contained the requisite couch, love seat, entertainment center. We rarely used it.

Upstairs, our bedroom faced west. We left the windows open so the breeze would carry in the scent of citrus. I sprawled out on the bed, feet tucked against the wrought iron’s pleasing coolness, and wrote in my journal while you showered. I paused, pen clicking against teeth as I watched the white eyelet shower curtain billowing against the clawfoot tub.

“I’m so happy,” I wrote. Then tore the page out because I didn’t want to use the word “so.”

“I’m happy,” I wrote again. I couldn’t think what else to say, so I closed the book and shoved it away. I closed my eyes.

***

I dreamed of a house. The front door opened onto a busy street. Once we’d heard a screech, a thud, the kind of sound your gut knew was bad before your brain could make sense of it. I leapt to the phone, dialed 9-1-1. You ran outside. You made a sound somewhere between a gasp and a moan and it shot through the door I was racing through. I crashed into you as you spun around and pushed me back inside. “Don’t,” you said. “Don’t.”

***

I dreamed of a house. The roof lurched into a point. To stand on the porch was to feel as if a fairy tale witch was leaning over you, daring you to knock. Inside, the only windows faced north, except the one over the kitchen sink that looked west. I scrubbed the dinner dishes and tried to find the sunset, but the hill blocked it from my sight. You built a fire in the living room, pulled out the futon. “Let’s sleep in here tonight,” you said. The bedroom was always cold, so I said yes.

***

I dreamed of a house. The ceiling was made of glass and we giggled as we twined naked on the bed. The whole house was our bedroom, a sink and refrigerator in one corner and bathroom barely enough to turn around in, in the another. A deck jutted from the back of the house, extended just enough for a single lounge chair and an outdoor shower. We ate mangos, threw the skins on the sand. You collapsed into the lounge chair. “I can’t stand up,” you laughed. I smiled as the hot water spilled across my shoulders.

***

I dreamed of a house. Smoke filled the bedroom. I jolted from bed, ran downstairs to find you. You laughed. “It’s okay, it’s just the party,” you said. I looked around. The living room had no furniture, but the people filling it didn’t seem to mind. I was unsure where they’d found ice for their drinks as our electricity had been cut off last week and all ours had melted. People turned to me – a woman whose dark bangs slashed across her face, a man who stood so tall I couldn’t see his eyes, hands pulling at my nightgown. I fled into the kitchen. Knives lay on the counter. The blades were cold to the touch.

***

I dreamed of a house. I recognized the house because I grew up within its walls. Our house mirrored the others in the neighborhood, made different only by the photos on the fridge, the food in the cupboards, the ways in which the secrets our family kept differed from our neighbors’. My bedroom faced west, out to the front yard. The kitchen faced west, too, the big elm tree blocking afternoon sunlight. My mom’s sewing room filled the southwest corner. She brought home a dress from the store, split it into pieces at the seams, copied the pattern, sewed it back together, returned it for a full refund. There was a pool in the backyard, glittering and blue, calling. I swam laps until my arms grew useless and yet somehow they managed to prop me up as I swung my legs over the windowsill, were able to pull open the door of the car in which you waited, behind the wheel, to spirit me into the night.

Advertisements

One thought on “writing exercise #51: I dreamed of a house”

Leave a Reply

Please log in using one of these methods to post your comment:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s