The New House

It is strange to want something, so intensely, after a period of wanting nothing. Just a short period, but a period nonetheless.

I know what I want is purely material: a house. A house with a view. But I want it just the same.

I am smoking. My nerves on edge. I am afraid and happy to be afraid. Happy to feel something. To risk something. Even though I’ve played the risk game before and lost.

I feel like I am bursting at the seams. I’ve had house issues for so long. But now, to really want a house. That is something.

I bought my first house at 28 and I could only see its flaws. I was so wrapped up in the writing of Whores that I didn’t want anything to do with it. I resented the boxes and the painting and everything that comes with buying a home.

But now I can’t wait to be wrapped up in the details of a new home. I think about painting and new carpet and furniture placement and getting a babysitter to watch the kids so that we can put Killz on the walls.

I do not want to go to work.

I think about the new house late at night and I get so excited I can’t sleep.

I think about drinking coffee at the kitchen table and looking at the water. I think about the kids, running around the 1.6 acres. I think about sparklers and things that glow. I think about pumpkins and Christmas trees and planting flowers that will come back, year after year.

Getting our current house ready for sale has been interesting. Because I want to do it. I don’t resent it. I’ve wanted to do it for so long. I ordered my husband around all weekend: Pack this, move that, sweep this.

I cleaned like a freak. I swept, I sprayed, I washed. I magic eraser-ed the whole house. I kept going, late into the night. Francis and I, sitting on the deck afterwards, the both of us sneaking a smoke. It’s fine. We’re finally on the same page. The both of us sitting at the table and having a drink, eating dinner in the dark, totally together and in love again.

And I’m so thankful for it. After so much fighting. Basically four years of fighting. Of wanting different things. Of not seeing eye to eye. I think about the time he threw something at my head. He missed. He knew he would miss. But still, he threw it.

Now, we hug often. We wake early in the morning terrified – at two, three, four. He puts a hand on my back and says, “Everything will be all right.” I do the same for him. We embrace in the kitchen, we dance.

He says, “I’m sorry I pushed you into buying this house.” He says, “I know you haven’t been happy.”

He says, “I just want to make you happy.”

And that alone makes me blissful. It’s exactly what I’ve wanted him to say for so long. And now he’s finally saying it.

And it’s not too late. It’s just in time.

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