Hannah’s home has a memory. It was born only a decade before the First World War and seemed never to recover from that struggle. Conflict was a part of its foundation and that conflict remained over time as it housed a multitude of people.
The three-storied house stands tall in an old Northeastern Pennsylvania city. It was always impossible for Hannah to imagine a life that could be contained by fewer than three stories. Those stories held her words—the truths and secrets that remain to this day scattered and buried beneath the wooden floorboards and within the white walls of that old home. Half restored, half destroyed, surviving only on the thought of renovation: this is where it begins and ends.
In complete disarray, the family that lived inside was in shambles as much as the house. A family torn apart at the seams, only attached by a surname. Inside lived a girl, an often misunderstood, but special kind, who lived in a space that was all her own. It was a place meant for rest, but also a wondrous place to escape to when reality got too hard and dark.
That space wasn’t really hers, but she occupied it for years, uniquely making it her own despite the little things she had. Books upon books, read and unread, filled the space and made it livelier than it led on. A journal collected and written in, keeping her thoughts forever suspended on pen-inked pages, and closed for not a single living soul to see and read. A life library nestled in-between reality and fantasy. A door, the other side of which was no longer the world she knew. On her side of the door, the chance to be her authentic self over-flowed through the space, covering every nook and cranny of the objects that represented her as a person, an individual, and an artist.
Years-old Christmas lights strewn throughout the perimeter of the room cast an ambient glow that illuminated the room, capturing what she saw through her eyes daily. A smell of incense and sage could be found wafting through the door, pungent and forever lingering in the air after each use. The smell of candles, specifically of sage and citrus, clung to the curtains, clothing, and those burn marks. She wasn’t a smoker, but the carpet was littered with them from the incense.
Mismatched bedding that covered the twin sized bed was essential to the warmth and comfort she often sought. She found it in a sea of blue blankets with no top sheets. She insisted to live a minimalist life yet collected anything that brought out her personality even more. Photographs, young and old, sat comfortably in the corners of her full-sized mirror. Every time she glanced at her present self she would stare back and somehow in the corner of her eye find herself looking and longing for the girl she once was. It was an only and existential thing, she thought, and would quickly go on with her day or night.
Concert tickets, quotes from her favorite writers and artists, artwork made by friends, artwork made by herself, poems from her lover, a rainbow COEXIST flag: these were the things that covered her walls. It was a strategic tactic to cover the plain, white walls that her father adored. He disapproved scornfully of the very thought of painting those walls. This was her quiet rebellion.
Plants and flowers filled her bedside side table, often of various kinds and colors, bringing her so much joy and the connection to nature right there in arm’s length. Often alive, but more often dead, she found the beauty in both and displayed them for all to see.
Solid color clothing hung haphazardly on a lonely chair, the very thought of putting them away was obtuse, for these were the articles of clothing that she favored most and wore with pride. Blacks, blues, beiges, browns, grays—the primary colors of her soul, encapsulated right there on that chair, overused and painted, this was the palate that colored her life.
Until the day when the world on her side of the door no longer belonged to her.
Piece by piece, the place she called her haven and solace for so long began to crumble, just like her family outside that door had. Exposed wires like nerves, struck with an electric force stronger than she could endure. Those nerves, those veins, the very blood of her home running through them, destroyed.
“I’m leaving your father the first of December; I can’t take being here much longer.”
“Where am I going to go? I can’t stay here.”
“I don’t know. I just can’t be here anymore.”
All the art and knick-knacks and books, slowly began to be packed away in boxes, labeled: fragile, handle with care. Her life inside those items soon vanished into thin air as they were forced into plastic containers and brown boxes. Journals filled with meaningful words were soon taken over with fear and concern, the endless thoughts to pen on paper, a new place of solace, perhaps? Those old Christmas lights were taken off and cast a darkness into that space that she feared most: the harsh reality that it was just a room, in just her parents’ house, and it wasn’t anything more than that.
The smell of sage and incense and candles soon dissipated and no longer linger, just the smell of old house, peeling paint and dust. Those same colored clothes that hung haphazardly on that chair were soon folded and neatly placed in a box amongst all the other article of clothing that she owned. Graduation gown, prom dress, high school t-shirts and sweatshirts— stowed away. It wasn’t just her world that she built that was crumbling, it was the harsh realities of the one she was forced to be a part of that was too.
She knew that one day it was going to happen, that the solid foundations she knew would be ripped from under her and would leave her to fend for herself, but not so soon. She thought she had time. She thought wrong. Boarded up windows, boxed up items, new locks on the doors, and a family no longer held together, not even by a surname.
She looked around in panic. A set motion: where to go, leave, to leave this place behind, all she knew. Paralyzed with fear, she felt something unfamiliar, which she could not place. Yet the hopefulness she carried with her always would soothe her even now. She knew that this was for the best and that it was time to be liberated from the pain, hate, and abuse that she endured for twenty-five years.
To see the world she built changed to the world she knew and fought hard to ignore shook her down to her core and left her open with aged wounds she thought she had bandaged and protected. Now, having to deal with the people she was forced to call her family angered her and made her feel inadequate. She felt small as a human being. The worst kind of people that she saw and never wanted to be like were right in her face, and she now had to deal with a hardship they all knew was coming.
It was early November and everything around her began to fall, just like the leaves on the trees that filled her city. The reds, oranges, yellows, and greens blanketed the sky and filled the season with the shedding of another year: despite all the things around her dying, the leaves taught her the art of letting go. That despite another season of changing, this was a sign telling her that it was her time to change into someone she knew she was meant to be a long time ago and it was time for her to follow her heart.
Thankfully, she did have a new place to look forward to. The man she loved had offered her a huge part of his world (though she never stopped having one of her own). He calmly suggested for her to come into his with warmth, love, and safety. It was finally a chance to shed her old selves and to begin forming a new one. Graciously, she took his offer and with all the hope she carried around with her, she gathered her things and left the place she had once called home.
It took two trips, for she did not own many things: she left behind a half empty space that looked lifeless and inhabitable, something she had not seen in years. The bed, dresser, mirror, and lamps remained, for she found no use for them where she was going and did not think they were necessary. She walked around one more time the space she occupied in that old Colonial home. She walked with nostalgia, the incessant humdrum of bitter sweetness stung the tops of her mouth and filled her entire being.
Everything changes and nothing stays the same for long. That empty space, as if a life and a world wasn’t lived inside, remains in that northeastern town. Half restored, half destroyed, the truths and secrets will remain scattered and buried beneath the wooden floorboards and within the white walls. No one will look out those double windows to Center City below, but the sun will still rise and set through them, reflecting effortlessly.
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