I had a dream about chipped linoleum flooring last night,
the foot-long gap of an ugly, yellowed tile pattern peeled all the way off by the oven in my childhood home.
I can't recall how many years I spent stepping around the cracked edges walking through the kitchen,
how long the repairs my father never cared to make went undone.
The silverware drawer spit out sawdust from years of wear.
The ceiling fan surrounded by spiderweb cracks, the occasional leak straight through from the bathroom above.
My mother still laments her dishwasher desires, but she fixed the floor herself.
The memories flood back like those drips from the ceiling— a droplet turns to a flow
as I am browsing faucets and cabinet fixtures,
picking out preferences for a house I don't even own.
My love sends me pictures of countertop slabs, runs the options by me for measurements, colors, sinks,
not just making repairs, but taking me into account and proving his home is ours,
his heart is mine, and we are building a future together even as we mostly live apart.
About the Creator
Enjoyed the story? Support the Creator.
Subscribe for free to receive all their stories in your feed. You could also become a paid subscriber, letting them know you appreciate their work.
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.