The House I Carry

I grew up in a house with the “good” cereal, but only once in a while. Mom would put down her bag just so, her eyes glittering.

And we’d descend like the vultures we were,

our biggest bowls already in hand.

We’d fling aside boxes of Cheerios and Grape Nuts before ripping the Cinnamon Toast Crunch free, the plastic bag from its box in an instant. It’d be gone by morning.

I grew up in a house with a layer of pet hair on every surface, in every blanket shaken out like snow. Dogs and cats didn’t have their own beds

because our beds were their beds;

our bodies contorted around theirs like back pain didn’t exist,

like sleep was secondary to the comfort of their warm bodies curled next to ours.

Nose prints clouded every window and slobber trails wound from water bowls to the kitchen table and back again. We’d wipe them up with a paper towel.

I grew up in a house where art projects were never thrown away,

where construction paper turkeys spilled out of clear plastic bins

and marker drawings were carefully labeled with names and ages.

Paint trays stayed open all day long, the colors mottled together into shades of crusty brown–until water was added and revealed the true hue beneath the mess.

People were purple and dogs were orange and the sun was green, but we knew our pictures would hang on the fridge, nonetheless. We’d present them with magnets already in hand.

I grew up in a house that was always unfinished. Dad’s tools sat next to holes in walls like permanent fixtures; cords coiled in piles like snakes.

We shouted “Demo Day!” like others cried “Christmas!”

brandishing hammers behind too-big goggles,

our paper masks just big enough to leave behind drywall mustaches and dust-crusted foreheads.

New projects began before old ones were finished. We never did see the last layer of paint dry.

I grew up in a house where fights were always loud, where voices had to carry to be heard and tempers were hot things, never simmering too long before erupting.

Jabs were added into conversations like Alka-Seltzer tabs,

designed to create a reaction,

to infiltrate the calm.

But trees could be climbed or bikes could be hopped on or forts could be made–a “No Entry” sign hung like the flip-side of a surrender flag. I’d write in red and tack it to the door before the marker even set.

I left the house I grew up in young, too full of restlessness to stay–ready to leave a mark, a splash, a stain on wherever I went (wherever I go)–everywhere and nowhere unfurling before me.

The house I grew up in is gone–

but I’m still here,

cinnamon and sugar clinging to my fingertips,

pet hair woven into my sweater,

paint still wet on my skin,

and scaffolding around my ribcage.

Somehow, always, with more growing up left to do.