In the Absence of Walls

I visited his late grandmother’s house in December, met his mom for the first time, and played cards on the wooden dining room table while sipping on microwaved mint tea. The house sat on the bottom of a hill, a small, one story ranch style with uncomplicated rooflines. He took me through the back entrance, pushing past a sliding glass door. It was a familiar habit of his, and for the first time I was a part of it. The house bordered a golf course that overlooked the city at the thirteenth hole. After brief hello’s and it’s nice to finally meet you’s we walked it by ourselves, the three of us, clad in worn coats and shy boots that followed the trails of conversation. We smiled quietly as leaves and decay cried under us, the lazy descent of the sun tracking our movements without offering warmth. I held my breath instead of saying the wrong thing. Hopeful at first, always hopeful, until it started to rain. 

The walls of the house were much like any other: colored, cream, and cracking. They held memories I had only started forming and would not complete. Nothing to bind the progression of time that had passed in the house. The walls watched the microwave spin and spin and spin a cup of water until it was boiled and it was tea. He surprised me that evening, standing in the still kitchen and rubbing lazy circles on my back for her to see. He adored me then, truly. I didn’t dare close my eyes and risk missing the moment of my revelation. I was glad of it because she set my tea in front of me and headed for the bedroom, leaving only him and I to witness the width of his love. Despite his touch, I wondered if she felt lonely in this house by herself, with only walls to support her. And then I wondered if it was more like freedom. I had a feeling then, of not truly being there at all. Like I was half asleep under a sun that set just under the edge of epiphany. One I only recognized because I burned my tongue on something hot. On peppermint tea. His mom came back in something that wasn’t wet. I politely, always politely, stayed in mine. 

He left soon after to pick up dinner and I watched his mom move about the space of her house, a gentle stroke of femininity even though she did not touch the stove. Even though no man was present. Her hair was up, disheveled, her features edged. The physical resemblance to her son nearly nonexistent. His were like liquid, melted onto his face and changing based on what angle I looked at him. People were not so different from houses. Each of them built from the earth, molded by others, modified through emotion and age. Did I remind him of his mom? I didn’t feel as feminine as she did. He contradicted me in such a way that I wasn’t sure there was room. 

“He adores you, you know,” she said to me, preparing a tea bag for herself. She closed the door to the microwave and pressed start. The mug spun and spun and spun until it didn’t. 

Beep, beep, beep. 

I smiled with teeth. It felt loud. 

“I adore him, too.” And I did. I really did. 

He came back with two large bags. I moved to help set the table and open each of the styrofoam containers. It was the way you moved when you were still finding your place within a unit that already understood each other. I understood one part but only without the other. He became someone new around her, maybe he became himself. He let her decide what plates to use, what silverware to grab. I was mesmerized as much as I was unsure. She shifted too, around him. Leading, guiding, telling. It was at that table I realized I did not like feelings of half.

I cannot remember what we said over dinner. I recall, with some discomfort, that I cannot remember eating. But when dishes were cleared and the rain outside fell slower, a pack of cards were brought out, as well as a second round of peppermint. I accepted the cup and tried not to imagine the plastic chemicals from the tea bag leaking into the steaming contents. He let his mom explain the rules to a game whose name I forgot. I laughed at his interruptions and corrections. I lost to him, he lost to her. I envied that. Soon, I told myself, I’ll learn to play like her and the next time we come here, I’ll win him too. It was that easy to imagine myself as a permanent part of this life, even though I did not touch my tea. 

With the last of the dishes put away and everyone asleep between their sheets, I walked the house. Its bones were beautiful, to hold up such a place as this. My fingers trailed across the countertops and chairs, teasing the furnishings to share her secrets. I held my ear against the tiled floor, hoping to hear the footsteps of his childhood hiding underneath. I wanted to know how she raised this house to be hers. Its architecture was with flaws, but wasn’t everyone? Without his mom’s structure against it, the living room was normal, quaint, stifling. The feeling of being someplace you know you will never have. I knew it then too, but I was better at pretending I didn’t. I wanted something whole so I would make myself small enough to fit in one.

In the morning, we hiked the rocky outskirts of the hilly course. We made it to hole thirteen. They showed me the city from above. Being there, seeing building after building, I was everywhere all at once. Breathing in spoonfuls of mud pies and asphalt toppings. I wanted to scream. He grabbed my hand and placed a soft kiss on my wrist. He told me I was exactly what his mom expected. “Good,” he said. I was good for a girlfriend, a good girlfriend. I made sure to be careful about the noise of my smile. We never talked about it but being there with him, I thought of marriage. 

On our way down, I watched as his mom picked up stray golf balls and dropped them in her pockets. This one’s good, she examined, and sometimes, this one’s cheap, but took them all regardless of bad or expensive or good or cheap. 

It was freezing. The rain had left the earth darker, sharper, less forgiving. I wanted to hold her hand and find the warmth she reserved for all her found things. I held onto his. After an hour on the hill, we made it back to the small house. It was then, being greeted by the faded tile roof and rusty screen door that I fit myself in those golf ball ridges, lost and looking for someplace to be tucked into. 

We left that house without ever having walked through the front door. I didn’t know why that detail filled me with loss. Perhaps just one more idea left unfulfilled. It snowed as we said our goodbye’s and thank you’s and come again soon’s. I would not come back to that ranch style house on the bottom of the hill. 

In the space of my own four walls, I changed into something that would heat my insides. I woke early and watched the sun rise on the balcony. The sky grew heavy with a concrete remembrance and I knew to go. The pressure made me yawn. Even so, I felt more awake than I had in days. I inspected my foundation, my bones. They were not yet beautiful, but they could be. I stretched out, allowed the tips of my fingertips to reach for the sky and its answer. It felt loud. Away from the spinning and spinning and spinning of his mom’s mugs I admitted I did not like microwaved mint tea. This did not change the fact that I loved him. It merely solidified that it was not enough of a reason to live a life I was not entirely occupying. 

Regardless of good or bad, big or small, quiet or loud, I took all of my half formed memories of that house and put them into my pocket. Maybe, once I found home, I could unpack them there and create something entirely my own. I was hopeful, always hopeful, even as it started to rain.