Home Stories
As I turn off the lights on a Sunday evening, it’s dark and the only sound is of the dishwasher running. I pad around the house, filling up my water bottle for the night. Yawning, I crash into bed, ready for the world of dreams to take me. Right before I drift off, I have a sudden thought… I wonder what my apartment would think, if it could think at all. Does it have a life, rich in thought, full of stories? What would that be like?
Here is what I imagine.
Perhaps the house comes alive in silence. Either when we are not home, or when we are asleep. The walls change into long sinewy figures, not scary, not ghost-like, but harmless and soundless. I imagine the wall personalities to be somewhat like cleaners, if you like. The silent, soundless ones who bear witness to much more than you can imagine — unjudging and ever sincere. I imagine them checking into each room, to see if the inhabitants are tucked in safe and sound. They walk into the living room, taking stock of the day’s affairs, open up their daily log of events, journal in some pensive thoughts, a light narrative.
‘Today, the children played a game of tag at home. They made new scratches on the floors. The parents opened up another bottle of wine, therefore I, along with my wall brothers, have earned new stains’.
I imagine the smaller objects to be the chattering elves, maybe gnomes? They’re decidedly mischievous, re-arranging themselves and having a grand old party. I imagine all my books breaking into dance, switching partners, switching protagonists. I imagine my stationery being curious, venturing out of their storage box and exploring the big wide world that is our apartment. I think of the pens swapping the latest gossip, flipping the notebooks they’ve been a part of open and pointing out the exciting bits to their friends. The cushions puffing out and fluffing themselves self-importantly, the lights turning on and off in excitement, the other electronics joining in enthusiasm and fighting not to be out done.
The plants, I think are the whimsical ones — wistful and ethereal. They’re slightly snobbish too, they think themselves the closest to us humans and therefore all other things in the house below them. When the books cat-call drunkenly, they don’t deign to reply.
‘It’s a shame we’re stuck with this mindless lot’, they grumble to each other.
I think of the rooms, the moments they have seen, the stories they know, the tales they would tell if they could.
My mind goes to the kitchen, ah the kitchen — mother of all stories. Pots of coffee, kettle steaming furiously, nothing can quite capture the tales Mother Kitchen has to share. The faucet does not just spout water, but also the most poignant moments. It knows of our hand callouses and scars, our midnight thirst, countless attempts at sobering up after a night of alcohol. It knows of dishes gone wrong, tender moments cooking together, the power that a simple good meal has to unite people. The smell of baked goods, celebrations and the small daily struggles of being alive.
Adjacent to this heart of the home is the toilet. It of course knows the good, bad and ugly. The mirror houses a past that dates back to forever, reflections of everything that has been and premonitions of all that is yet to come.
The stories that my home could tell, I think, go much beyond what I could. The innumerable memories it undoubtedly stores, of children from families who lived here before us running, scampering feet and all. Of a couple dancing, of friends talking. Of heartbreaking moments, both good and bad. Lazy nights watching TV. Yoga on the floor. Sunday morning coffee and cake, the moments spent reading on the balcony, the sound of a blaring radio and the feel of sunlight streaming in. Of me in bed, dreaming half a dream and imagining this quirky tale.
Just think of the the sheer number of phone calls it has heard in its lifetime, the whispered conversations, tunelessly singing, drunken shouts it has been privy to. The family feuds it may know, maybe some tragedies it has witnessed, perhaps a conspiracy or two it has overheard.
It’s funny how we imagine that we are the ones who bring the stories to our homes when really, all we are is a small little piece in a richly woven tapestry that perhaps we will never see in all its wondorous entirety.
Tomorrow when I wake up to this little apartment of mine in the early morning light, I will take it all in for less than a minute. I will gaze at our work table littered with objects, our plants idle at the window sill, our jackets hanging heavy on the coat rack. I will brew myself a fresh pot of coffee, shake my head at my rich imagination and move on with my day — maybe giving my concrete story teller yet another day to add to its memory bank, yet another anecdote to share and a million other small moments that it will remember for me, long after my lifetime.
