My Dwelling

In my apartment, my mind is spilled onto the floors and walls. The couch moves with the seasons and the open, shelved Poe collection is flipped to my latest favorite.Clothespins hold the page on display. A clock hangs from the coat rack, but I pulled the batteries to stop the incessant ticking. Salsa jars are emptied and stripped of labels. I stuff them with flowers.

Plants. Dead plants, green plants, pots and dirt. Aloe rests on my kitchen counter and Lemon Button graces my windowsill. A large wooden bird cage imprisons a dried Eucalyptus plant. All my collected empty window frames are hung on walls. The panes of glass are carefully adorned with words-white ink- about God’s love to convince my skeptical mind. I like the way the real windows reflect light off the ones that were torn from their original homes. The one in my bedroom has fabric showing through the back. I stapled each inch carefully. It watches me sleep. I like to think maybe a dog sat on a chair and stared out those windows in a different house on a day a long time ago.

There’s a box for everything. Compartmentalized interests and necessities. An art box. A t-shirt box. A Bible and devotional box. A box for socks. A box for the dog. A box for my medicine. That one sits high on a slender red cupboard, taunting me. I have to keep it there so I don’t forget. It’s a whicker box like the one that holds my paintbrushes, only it’s slightly smaller both in size and in therapeutic value.

Our living room has white curtains. Grey sofa. Light blue coffee table. Mom and I bought it and up cycled it for $15. My mom lives all around. She’s in the rainbow kitchen rug and the bright teal yard sale chairs. Each eccentric accent of my kitchen echoes the parts of me that I got from her- the lemon yellow curtains, the firetruck red vintage stool in the corner, the rainbow hot air balloon sculptures that hang joyfully from the ceiling.

The old wooden floors are scratched and worn down, sometimes I put bleach on them. I’m not really sure why. When I look at them, I imagine previous residents-Families in transition, single women with pet cats, medical students. There’s dust in each corner. I like it there. One day we will drag the bed across the wood and out the door to a bigger space. We will sign our names with our own floor scratches and join the cycle of people who loved life within these walls.

Our TV is enclosed in a large, sturdy hutch we bought from Goodwill for $30. It took hours for dad to wheel it in. I like to close the heavy wooden doors to hide the screen. It doesn’t belong in a peaceful space like here. I am scornful of the TV. I placed it on top of a shelf full of all my books. They’re organized into a rainbow. Each spine cries out in mourning over their words who were stolen by the television above. I gave them a supporting role holding up the TV. I didn’t want them to feel sad. There is nothing worse than when your own beloved books feel sad.