My Suburban Home

      

         When I think of my family, I think of our home. Our single-story house has borne witness to much of our development, through laughter and tears, and so our most valuable possession is our residence. I have memorized every aspect inside the walls, from the patterns in the popcorn ceiling that my eyes traced every night as I fell asleep, to the creaking of the pantry door. But much time has passed, and I find myself wondering if our aspirations have outgrown the suburban street my brother and I grew up on.

I have returned to this suburban abode almost every day of my life. In other words, I’ve lived here for seventeen (almost eighteen) years. My parents bought the house while expecting my older brother, with the intent to move somewhere bigger as the family grew. Evidently, they stayed for longer than anticipated when I was born. They nevertheless cherished the house’s cozy ambience to raise their children, furnishing it with warm colors and antique furniture. Eventually, the house became a home; the wine red and beige sofas became the best spot to wrestle with my brother, and the dining-kitchen was the family’s main hangout. I still love the open design of the main area: a foyer that opens up directly into the wide living room, which is separated from the dining-kitchen by only a kitchen pass-through. But having an open-floor plan also means the members of my family run into each other a lot, both physically and mentally. 

And so, though our home holds some of our happiest memories, it also bears the worst. There have been moments when the walls, which we so lovingly maintained, have felt suffocating. Moments when there was nowhere to escape to, no new nooks and crannies to be found. I retreated to my room, which suddenly felt too big and exposed, and tried to drown out the noises of my parents’ arguments. I don’t like to dwell too much on the negative, since the good moments can certainly outweigh the bad if I try. But it is sometimes strange to be in the same rooms that I lived in as a child, to be reminded of the past constantly. I think the rest of my family has felt the same way, and we began some renovations in 2021.

Much has changed in the last couple of years. Now the floor is no longer carpet, and the worn furniture has been replaced. I would be lying if I said I was not excited about the change, though a part of me still longs for the soft grip of the carpet. Instead I have adjusted quickly to the modern look of the house, and my feet appreciate the cool sensation of wood. The house has matured, just as we have, though the structures which it was built upon remain the same. I know that many of my peers have moved houses, states, or even countries, and I always wonder what it is like from their perspective. I have valued my home as a constant in my life, but I also believe there is much to be gained in experiencing new beginnings. 

The question still remains of what will happen after I leave for college. If my parents will hold onto the home long enough for me to return to it, or if they will create the fresh start I have always been fascinated by. I don’t know what I would prefer, but I hope that when the time comes, I will be able to leave behind my single-story home with content.