As an engaged-to-be-married (in 30 days) woman, I am coming to terms that my days at the Morrow residence are numbered. Although I'm beyond thrilled to share my life with the love of my life, the thought of leaving the Morrow madness makes my heart ache.
124 Ewell Place has been my home for over a decade; I walked through these hallways before the walls were built or the carpet laid. Every weekend, our family would pile in our big van and drive across town to check out the progress. We'd gawk at the unfinished frame, ask my parents questions about what this will be and what that will look like, and then carefully and cautiously creep up the bare wooden stairs to visit our future rooms.
My room was on the 3rd floor, or the built-out attic; it had slanted ceilings and a lot of heat that rose from the rest of the house. It was warm. It was secluded from the fleet of boys downstairs. It was girly. It was spacious. It heard a lot of boyband cds, survived a lot of messes my mom fought me to clean, and saw a lot of glitter nail polish, make-up, and Bath and Body Works product (that still haunt the carpets today). It was my adolescent bedroom. Not necessarily my childhood room — that one included bunk beds and "junk drawers" of elementary treasures — but it was the room where I spent my teenage years, which were arguably the years that I did the most growing, the most shaping, into who I am today.
After college graduation, my blessed parents wanted me home so badly that they sacrificed the beloved playroom and had it turned into a bedroom for me. So now I reside in the renovated garage. It's the room without windows, but has a lot of heart. In the wintertime, it's chilly, but cozy because I keep no less than 3 fleece blankets on hand at all times. In the summertime, I'm comforted by the clinking and swishing of the ceiling fan over my head. Half the room is covered from floor to ceiling with white, symmetrical built-in bookshelves. They hold all the books in the entire house, and they're the first thing I see when I wake up every morning -- rows and rows of books.
Home. This man-made structure of plaster and wood that we watched slowly be built up from the ground has transformed into the most lively and loving home. We've made it our home. My parents along with the contribution of all of us. In some ways, I'm afraid to lose my place here. To miss out on contributing to what we've created. To not belong here or be found here. I'm wary of missing the everyday interactions -- the impromptu dance parties while doing hours of dishes after dinner. Or the family meetings where my Dad lays down the law, divides chores, and predictably states, "your mother will not be faced with a dirty house." Or the quiet evenings when I unexpectedly find myself having a hot dog dinner and thrilling conversation with the 5-year-old -- a rare moment when it's just us in the house. Or coffee dates at the kitchen table where my parents listen to us girls discuss drama and dreams. Or the same. songs. every. day. being played on the piano. Or sleeping in my parents' bed when one or both of them are out of town. Or family movie nights where the older kids suffer through children comedies, but enjoy hearing the rounds of adolescent laughter. Or sitting cross-legged on the kitchen counter for late night snacks, someone always opening and closing the fridge at least 10 times as if suddenly new options will appear. Or having a plethora of beautiful fashion consultants available whenever I need their outfit approval.
My new home. I see it as an opportunity to take my parents' cue and create the same environment I've always known and loved. It will be a safe place, a loud place. We'll sit on the counters just because. I'll make enough coffee for company. We'll dance away our dinner calories. The most exciting part? I get to do all this alongside a HUSBAND.
"people that marry can never part, but must go and keep house together." -- Jane Austen, Northanger Abbey
