Her first home was a cottage by the sea that is no longer there.
The wafting of her afternoon tea rebuilds the grey stones. Once again a knobby-kneed kid, her mam fussed fussed fussed (How did you manage to get seaweed in yer hair? Don’t drag yer dirt into the gaff. I told ye not to get yer new boots wet, ye gimp!) when the light sunk beneath the silver horizon and she traipsed up the dirt path clutching treasures of wave-molded pebbles.
What makes home home?
In the narrow halls of the Dublin flat, Mam’s shrills bounded off cardboard walls and she dreamed of the grey stone cottage. Boring her face into the too-flat pillow, she imagined the constant press of waves pounding. pounding. pounding.
Where did home go?
She likes to touch things that are old. One time, she brought her antique copy of The Victorian Catelogue of Household Goods to lecture, in case her students were interested. “Just look at all the pointless stuff they would buy just because they could!” Pages of perfume bottles, china, porcelain vases, foot scrapers, candlestick holders, chitzy busts of Prince Albert. “Why did they need all this crap?!”
Why? How does this make a home?
Her favourite part of day is right before curtains are drawn—when windows are lit, but not yet covered. She paces past in the winter mist beneath a black umbrella, her red beret clinging to the coils of her springy hair for dear life, observing the houses of strangers. Her round blue gaze is meticulous—noticing everything from the IKEA couches to the Turner prints on the walls to the stained doily on the end table. She never needed to own a telly—not when the houses of London play the best program of all at five each and every night. Behind those golden squares run the story of life—an endless stream of coming and going, sitting and standing, leaving and—
What makes a home homely?
The stone cottage was gone when she came back for it.
How heartbreaking it is for all those memories—warming wind-beaten hands over the fire. . . porridge over the old stove . . . that one spot that leaked after an evening storm, no matter how many times Da patched the roof . . . the plink! plink! plink! of droplets filling the rusty kettle . . . to be gone.
I’m getting this piece workshopped in my writing class tomorrow, so I thought I’d share. It’s actually a piece of non-fiction. Who is Jane? She was my literature professor when I studied in London and all these details are based on real information.
That’s right, I write imagined stories about real people. Watch out… you could be next.