It's the week between Christmas and New Year's Day, and you do the natural thing -- you head home for the holidays. Amongst the familiar surroundings of the home you grew up in, you start to feel comfortable as you settle back into your old routine. If the house was shrouded in a veil of pitch black darkness, you'd know your way around without so much as a stumble. You're in your element. And then you realize something about the house you grew up in. There is some weird ass shit in this house.
You really don't notice these things when you're growing up, but if you take the time to look, it's quite apparent. It starts with the Leroy Something or Other Saskatchewan Rough Riders CFL football card on the refrigerator next to the Princess Diana magnet. Then you notice the picture of your sister (at age 5, carrying a bag of plastic forks) taped to the inside of the kitchen cupboard. And as you see the large collection of every shoe any member of your family has ever worn, lined up neatly in the garage, even though there is no chance in hell they'll ever be worn again, only one thought comes to mind. Why the fuck is this stuff here?
You look towards the Quentin Richardson poster (which was given free to you when you attended a Clipper game years ago, which you promptly threw away in the trash can in your room, but then somehow magically reappeared taped to the outside of the makeshift wooden shed that your dad built to hold all the garden tools) for answers, but are met with the silence that can only come from the half torn, weather worn smile from the soon to be husband of R&B singer Brandy. Perhaps you think to consult the dusty "Happy New Year! 2000" headband that is proudly displayed on the fireplace mantle, but you think better of it. It suddenly dawns on you. There is no real answer for any of this. It's just home. Your home. You sit down in the chair, underneath the lamp that looks like a big hairdryer in a low budget barber shop, and you smile. Sometimes crazy ass shit makes sense in the fact that it makes absolutely no sense at all. You know better than to question it by now.
1 comment:
I _have_ that picture of your sister with the bag of plastic forks! Holy smokes, life is just full of coincidences.
Myself, I note how the house seems a lot smaller after a while. Also, the house smells kind of funny upon further retrospect. Or, that I myself have gotten smellier. Probably the latter hypothesis.
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