The longest I’ve ever lived in a house was… let me think… four years.
The house, in the West Point’s Lusk neighborhood, was a place my mom let me let loose. I painted the walls blue, and tried my hand at painting clouds on the ceiling. In my closet, my friends signed their names to the wall in pungent sharpie marker, leaving my clothes slightly fumey. But I was in middle school. They were already slightly fumey.
Now, Patrick and I have lived in our first home for a year. Every wall has been painted. Every rug is new. All the furniture meticulously placed. Nails only seldom pierce the walls, for fear that I’ll change my mind and leave a hole in the freshly patched and perfected walls. I care about this place.
|and this dog.|
But all this nesting has made me really reconsider my childhood. My moving, changing, stupidly mobile childhood. And the truth is, I’m confused about it.