Suppose I tell you about holes. The one in the
wall, hiding in the hallway behind
the linen closet. Suppose I tell you that
slamming doors in rage can break walls, and
. Suppose I told you I was right, but I got
punished for that hole and she never apologized.
Suppose I tell you about the new back
porch, the one that was built because I fell through
a gap in the rotting wood, all the way up to my thigh,
my foot dangling desperately from below. Suppose I
could show you the colors of those bruises, do you
think you could imagine the pain?
Suppose I tell you about floors. The one in
the kitchen that the kids redid with stick-on
tiles from Pergament. That it cost
us $70 dollars and two days of work, that it was a surprise for Mum, and that she was thrilled with it. The floor in the garage, cement and cool and spidery. The carpet on the floors, light brown in every single room.
Suppose I tell you about doors, the bedroom that I
shared and never locked, the bathroom that was the
only place for silence? Suppose I told you of another
hole I made, kicking the door in frustration, would you have any idea of where it is?
I know this is not what you want to hear.
Do you want to know about words? Suppose I told you
only the loud ones. Suppose I told you only
the soft ones. Suppose it were all a lie.
One day I will buy paint and splash colors into every room of that house. The house we left
behind in another country was old, fantastic, falling
apart from family use. The house we live in now still
has no character. Ten years. Sterile.
Suppose I tell you the secrets I know about the
house I live in, and the other one I grew up in.
Suppose I told you everything, would I feel any better?
Would you understand?