It had been a piece of advice from her father: “If you can’t sleep, build a house.” Often, she couldn’t sleep, and just as often, she formed walls and rooms and floors. “My house is massive,” her father once said, “and it always has checkerboard floors.” At her young age, she was no interior designer, but she wanted her house to be pretty, so instead of drywall and plaster, she constructed a house of possibilities.
The living room was a stage and its walls were an audience. She would sing a phrase and they would echo it back to her, leaving it to ring in her ears as she settled on the couch built from determination, ambition, and a quiet shyness that would always set her apart. The television played rumors and she laughed them off more often than not. The newscasts were peaceful, happy, almost art. The audience walls held art of their own, quotes, words, and memories that held together her home.
The kitchen was small, but well stocked, and well loved. It was dusty with thrown flour and cabinets hung crooked on the walls. It was disorganized, but functioning, and there was always tea in the kettle. The refrigerator was made of postcards from friends, pictures and letters from relatives, even some coins she’d collected. The oven emitted different smells all the time, all of them lovely, and all a surprise. While she never knew what the oven would cook, she enjoyed every meal, no matter what was provided.
The dining room was elegant, filled with glowing swirls of pixie dust and a constant murmur of pleasantries and how-do-you-dos. The words were easy and thoughtful, measured and kind. Any disputes were compromised, though not without a spilled drink or two. The dog took care of those (he was happy to). It was dimly lit, and any guests were taken at face value, illuminated only by the gentle light of the words that spilled from their lips and floated upwards, joining the golden tumult of conversations past. She liked it like that.
Her bedroom was a bookcase, and her bed was a book with her name on the cover, softly inscribed beneath an ever changing title. The pillows were words and the carpets were soft with unfinished ideas, waiting to be drawn up and into the chapters of her mind. Her sheets were book pages, and they held a new tale every night. Sometimes they were illustrated, sometimes they popped up.The curtains billowed with inspiration, the walls were dark with ink blots. Stashed inside the bookcase, beside the blueprints of her house, one could find the beginnings and ends of the blueprints to her thoughts.
An individual room for the individual kind, the guest room was a canvas with no markings in sight. Visitors were to make it their own, to embrace themselves and paint the walls. Some visitors painted storms and others replaced the canvas with their hearts. Sometimes the walls became diaries, and the windows turned to locked doors. It never mattered to her, really. This room wasn’t hers to explore.
The roof was mossy, bursting with plant life, flowers of all kinds. She had handed its design to Mother Nature, who had taken the project in stride. The roof kept out storms, kept her warm in the winter, swayed with a breeze when she wished to be cool. It was a stunning creation, beautiful inside and out, alive simply to live, as so many do. It sheltered the house, protected the inside, kept it strong as its vines and branches crawled down the home’s sides.
The house was sided with strips of cloth, soft and pastel, laid over solid intentions that shone bright with good meaning. The house seemed nearly alight, so loudly it glimmered with love, affection, feeling. Its light spread upwards and outwards, offered downy feathers of delight to all who would take them. The house was unique, as was she, and it was pleasant, like her dreams.
There were more rooms to the house, and each was its own. The attic was stuffy with memories lived again, the bathroom was a desert, an oasis in its midst. All of the hallways were wide enough for two, even three; the yard grew in patches of velvet and suede, encouraging softness and gentility. As a whole, the structure stood tall, strong, and uncontested, a welcoming refuge for creatures big and small, and the foundation it stood on was the most stunning work of all.
The foundation was made of cinder block and guitar strings, and had a habit of humming songs off key. It was powerful, solid, found strength in others’ smiles, gave love through its eternal support. It was was subtle in its presence, though it possessed the most important job. Often, a joke would be scrawled into the concrete of its spine. It was serious, proud, delightful in its ways, and without it, the dreams she grew would have withered away. The foundation upheld ambition and buoyed new growth, expanding with her as her house sprouted ballrooms and bedrooms and doors. It supported her dreams and her home with bold flourish. Most important of all, it had checkered boards.
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