The past months have been ones with a multitude of adventures – both emotional and spiritual as well as physical and mental. The sweet sherbert colored Smith Street mansion we resided in merely called “58” was entirely stripped of its moral fiber over the course of hours.
Box by box, couch by couch.
As children build sand castles on sunlit afternoons, we created our very own palace (as well as beach, counting all the sunbathing sessions). Unfortunately, as it also occurs in life, the tide eventually makes its way to sweep away and demolish all of the efforts. Maybe this is not a blissful metaphor; however, it is one of truth because at the end of the day, the memories are the only foundation that continues to subsist. The good times live on and the bonds meant to last carry through.
Speaking from my personal perspective…twelve months, nine different roommates, intense conversations over hookah smoking sessions, and myriad hours spent on the rooftop sipping on wine…I cannot help but feel bittersweet towards the past 365 days of my life.
Not every single moment was joyous, not every roommate was ideal. The kitchen resembled a depiction of a post- natural disaster scene. Along with that, the refrigerator was nothing but a shelter to various baffling items tucked away in Rubbermaid tupperware containers. It was often forgotten that the trash can had to be pulled to the curb Sunday nights. A dish pile recreation of the leaning tower of Pisa was usually found relaxing in the sink. The wooden floors were, for the most part, either dusty or sticky as evidence of all the inhabitants, visitors, and party crashers. A monthly electricity bill that was hefty enough to feed a small third-world country for at least a year. The upstairs bathroom had an absolutely insane slope and the place, over all, was not very sound proof. The absurd adjacent neighbor and his infrared camera. We could all agree that Peeping-Tom laws have been updated by this point in time. Also, who knew there was (technically) a “no party” clause in our lease contract?
Nevertheless, underneath all that, I could not help but love it and label it home. As Oliver Wendell Holmes said, “where we find peace is home, home that our feet may leave, but not our hearts.” I could not agree more.
Hopefully, those slight senses of negativity will not formulate the image of what was apartment B. Set aside the manmate and his anomalous cuisine choices (cornbread muffins with mysterious jizz sauce?), in my youthful eyes, the house symbolized growth and a baby step towards adulthood. It may have been like a never aired Real World season with all the drama, sex, parties, and what not that went on/under the roof of 58 Smith; nevertheless, for most of us, this colossal playhouse was our first established residence (excluding the sheltered dorm life).
It was a lesson learned in time. It was, and still is, one titanic eternal friendship. Towards the end, we all awaited the moment to move on and venture off to the upcoming parts of our lives. However, as we grow older, wouldn’t we want to go back?
A child was conceived.
Courageous step towards change for the better were made with great outcomes.
A fearless freshman was forced to grow up in haste.
Responsibly was taken much more seriously.
The police made a few trips our way...
Quite a few model airplanes were glued together…
(and I’m only saying that because I am still confused as to what his contribution was to be honest. Quite all right, it helps with the creation of jokes to maintain my immense sense of British humor).
The copious wounded soldiers and spilled beers. The birthday celebrations. The wine stains and shattered glass The theme parties. The laughter. Drinking on the rooftop. Um…drinking out of the Elephant! If I could count every dust particle we collected after cleaning, each and every one could probably tell a story that took place at the house. The countless photographs snapped and later on tagged on Facebook. Each tenant brought and took a bit of the character as they moved in and out. Everyone came from some walk of life and with themselves, brought a plethora to the charm of this 100 plus old domicile. Some sexiness, others sketchiness.
Think of the countless miles walked up and down the stairs, hallways, and rooms along with the myriad smiles that were exchanged. Rumor has it that novelists and poets venture to exotic locations to arouse their muse and creativity. This house was my inspiration and I firmly believe that it will be for quite some time.
Maybe I did not write inside the love nest*, but the mark that this temporary college apartment has left on my heart and soul cannot merely be expressed in words. No matter how hard I attempt.
Not to mention, this is much too lengthy to be written with a sharpie.
*love nest in (Emily/Lindsay)/(Lindsay/Becky)/(Just Becky)/(Brent)’s room
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