Two years ago, I lived in the only house I’ve ever not enjoyed living in.
Still, the kitchen was nice. Especially in the winter moonlight, sometime after midnight. I’d be in there alone. The whole house and street would be quiet. It would glow. I’d just stand there at the sink to take it in.
One day, a Saturday, I had that house to myself during the daylight. Without any particular reason, I shuffled out to the kitchen and sat on a stool. As I looked around me, I started seeing the cabinets as matching rectangles, the electric burners and lights as circles, and the electrical outlets and utensils all as having faces. All the metal shone, even though the kitchen needed cleaning. I could see everything in the room as a series of repeated patterns, and I felt totally at peace.
Of course, then I felt totally compelled to take a ton of photographs of the room, to try to capture that artistic impression. These photographs would sit in a folder of my laptop for a long time before I knew what to do with them.
Three months ago, I did not have a job. It was summer. I was living in my current house, which I love. I had time to sift through old art folders on my computer to see if any of my ideas still had life in them.
I was feeling artistic that day because I was feeling lovesick. It had been a long time since I’d dated anyone I truly liked.
I found the photos of that day in the kitchen, when I’d felt so happy even though I was lonely there.
I decided to write a love song.
To that old kitchen, I guess.
Or to myself.
For the future?
I paired the photographs to some audio of me singing the song. I posted my little video to my new Vimeo account, but I didn’t actually link anyone else to it. Almost all of the ten views are from me, watching it on one of my devices whenever I’d remember that I had made this thing.
This love song, written to see if I could make love up. Which does fill me up, each time I play it.
Then three weeks ago, I started going on dates with a new person. I do truly like him. I don’t have to make it up.
The funny thing is, he lives on the same street as my old house. On a short, residential street off to the side of town, that I’d never had the reason to visit since leaving.
The only other remarkable thing about this street is that it has magnificent trees. Their bark is white and silvery and glows in either the sun or the moonlight. It flakes off, and underneath it is either golden or grey.
Now I walk, or drive, past my old house whenever I visit his. I smile at how things turn out.
The first room after you walk into his house is the kitchen. Sometimes we stand in there by the window and look at each other for a few minutes before we start talking about our days or the movie we want to watch.
When we pause there, I feel that calm feeling. Of standing in a patch of warm light. Of being in a good place.
I could sing a love song.