I approach the footpath that slopes away from the shore. It seems to lead toward the gray roof in the distance, though I can’t be sure. But something deep in my soul tells me that the peaceful home life that has always eluded me lies at the end of this path, and so I begin to follow it.
The path takes me gently upward, ending (as I thought) in front of the gray-roofed house. I rest for a few moments against the gate, taking in a breathtaking view of the ocean. Then I turn to consider the house in front of me. This isn’t the diminutive cottage of my daydreams, but rather a two-story home: not grand, but large enough for a family. I push the gate open and continue toward it, my feet crunching on the shells that line the walkway.
I cross the deep porch that runs the length of the house, and pause only a moment before trying the door. Though I’ve never been here before, I sense that this is a place prepared for me and my family. I enter and begin to explore the inside
Just as I thought, it is a spacious house, and so gracious with high ceilings and lovely wood floors throughout. From the sound of a washing machine running down the hall, it’s clear that people are living here. And yet, an air of neglect hangs over the place. Outside it’s a glorious spring day, but inside the house is musty and dark. A quick circuit of the downstairs reveals grimy walls and cluttered surfaces– kitchen countertops, side tables: there’s not a clear surface to be found. In the formal dining room, the table is a jumble of school papers, mail, empty glasses, art projects… I’m sure it’s been months since the family has been able to eat a proper supper there. What a shame; with the tall windows opening to the sea, it would be a pleasant place to linger over a meal. Next to it is the kitchen, which show signs of more recent use: with dishes piled next to the sink, food-spattered walls, and cabinet doors hanging open. Further on I come to a parlor. Tucked at the back of the house, this room doesn’t boast a view as the other rooms do. But with its tall bookshelves and comfortable armchairs by the fireplace, I could imagine spending many cozy hours here. But the disarray evident here, as in the rest of the house, takes away the air of comfort.
I go upstairs to examine the bedrooms. There are two children’s rooms, but, wanting to avoid stepping on the toys strewn all over the floor, I just peek at them from the door. The master bedroom is in even worse shape. With boxes and bags shoved against the walls and in every corner, it might be better described as a storage room. Even the dressers are so piled with clothes so that I wonder what they’re keeping in their drawers? And the carpet is an embarrassing state. Clearly hasn’t been vacuumed in awhile, but it would be an ordeal to move around all that clutter to do it.
I head back downstairs, sliding my hand along the dark wood banister. As I retrace my steps through the first floor, I take note of the piles of clutter, the unswept corners, the scuffed woodwork… A powerful urge is rising up in me. First, to box up the junk crowding nearly every surface and haul it away, to give the home (and its inhabitants) space to breathe. Then to pull down the musty curtains and scrub the windows until they sparkle. To dust and scour, sweep and mop every surface. To repaint the dingy walls in soothing colors, and hang lace curtains at the windows. To fill it with fresh flowers, good food to nourish the body, music and conversation to feed the soul….
I need to start a list… I return to dining room to rummage through the disarray on the table, finding a pencil and an old school notebook. I return to the porch and settle on the one creaky chair. I imagine the family gatherings that could take place here. It could use a good sweeping though. And some comfortable furniture to invite one to linger. My eyes sweep across the lawn, bare now, but in my mind it’s abloom with flowers: fat hydrangeas in that shady corner over there; lilac bushes flanking the porch; a tumble of roses spilling down the slope toward the sea….
Plans, dreams… they’re coming in a torrent now. I need to get them down on paper. I flip the notebook open to the first blank page, and begin to write: “A year from now….”
A Year From Now 