Chronology of Houses

On a bumpy dirt road in rural Vermont there sat a little yellow house. The little yellow house had purple shutters and green doors. Half an acre of lush green grass rolling behind it to meet a small forest, another half-acre wide. In the shade of the house was a hammock, and beyond that a wooden play structure with a happy yellow slide. Inside, there lived a family. A mother, a father, two daughters, and two dogs. The family was happy. The mother painted all day in her studio in the basement while her daughters dipped their hands and feet in the rainbow of colors and pressed them to the walls. The whole room a canvas. The father worked at a tech start up. He came home in the evenings when the mother was at school and made vats of hotdogs boiled in baked beans. He watched golf and spun his daughters’ round and round while The Grateful Dead crooned in the background. In the forest behind the house the older daughter had her first taste of religion, dancing and praying to the goddess of the trees with her mother. For some time, the family stayed with the little yellow house, until one day they got in their white Subaru and drove away. The little yellow house stayed.

In a suburban stretch of Cupertino California sat a tan house. Unremarkable, except maybe for the lemon tree and swimming pool in the back yard. In the heat of the relentless sun the tan house had faded. The yard had faded. The diving board had lost its cobalt blue and looked as if it was covered in white dust. The fruit from the tree fell to the ground, untouched and unwanted. Infront of the house a white Subaru was parked. It too seemed to blend in with the heat and the dust. Inside lived a family. A mother, a father, two daughters, and two dogs. They were tired and a little lost. The mother hid in her room and cried for the little yellow house she missed. She cried for the family she had left behind. She cried. The father was never home, his new job at a tech company in Silicon Valley kept him busy and drained. The girls hid in their playroom, no more colored paint on the walls, only faded white. They played pretend house and wished someone would see them. They listened not to music, but to the sound of muffled fighting behind closed doors. Here they had their first taste of domestic abuse. Of their mother on the cold bathroom floor. Of loneliness. Of eviction. The family packed their bags into their new green Prius and drove away. The tan house stayed.

On a winding mountain road in the Santa Cruz mountains sat a three-story house, built from the same wood as the trees that surrounded it. The wooden house seemed to emerge from the hill- as if it were a part of the mountain itself. Across from the house was a river, and behind it a forest that stretched for miles and miles. The house had three decks. One on each side, and one behind it with a hot tub and a very old faded hammock. To get to the house you had to walk up a curved set of stairs made of first stone and then wood. Inside of the house lived a family. A mother, a father, two daughters, three dogs, and a cat. They were scared and angry and broken. The mother was drunk all day. Her vodka hidden under the sinks, in the daughters’ dressers, in the bathroom cabinets, and between the pillows. The father was angry. He was gone all the time. He drove an hour each way to work and came home to screaming. He cried with his head in his hands. The mother hit the father in her drunken rages. She tried to hit the older daughter too, but the father threw her down. The father started to hit the mother too. The daughters clung to each other. They prayed no one would see them. One dog ran away. Another was killed by the mother, too drunk to recognize heat stroke when she took them jogging on a one hundred-and-two-degree day. Later, the cat ran away too. Here the daughters learned what neglect and child abuse look like. Here there was no music. Only the smell of alcohol and pine. A new puppy came home to hide with the daughters upstairs. Then one Thanksgiving Day a grandmother came and took the mother and daughters away. The wooden house stayed.

In small town Massachusetts in a historic neighborhood there sat a grandmother’s house that was too small for them all.

In Poughkeepsie in a bad neighborhood where gun shots rang through the night sat an aunt’s house that was full to the brim with two daughters and a baby. No space for the mother. No space for the daughters. An uncle who was addicted to heroin and another who was in rehab.

In Wyoming near a river sat a condo. White on the inside and out. In it lived a man who raped the mother. He looked at the older daughter in the bath and offered to teach her gymnastics. He touched the younger daughter for too long when he was “washing her feet.” She stopped talking. The mother was drunk again. She smelled of vodka and blood. Her bones were broken and her skin bruised. She walked with her daughters to the liquor store and bought more vodka to hide in the condo’s cabinets. She bought fruity lemonade coolers at the request of the man and forced the older daughter to drink them. When the daughter wouldn’t drink the mother beat her to the ground and the rapist pulled her off of the daughter. The daughters made a plan. One day they got in a car and they never came back. The mother stayed. The rapist stayed. The white condo stayed.

A block from the beach in California sat a blue apartment building. There were flowers on each deck and a blue pool that shone in the sun and rippled in the ocean breeze. There were dogs that played outside. To the left of the apartments was a field full of eucalyptus trees and in the summer, butterflies. From the windows the waves echoed against the cliffs, singing their beautiful lullaby. In an apartment on the third floor lived a family. A father, two daughters, and one puppy nearly all grown up. They were hopeful. The father worked from home. He fell to his knees and begged forgiveness for his sins. He held his daughters close. He gave himself to single fatherhood in every way. He fought in court to get full custody and he won. The daughters learned to breathe again. They bought skateboards and bikes. They played in the sun and swam in the pool. The younger daughter was still quiet, but slowly her voice came back. The older daughter found her goddess again in the eucalyptus trees. She prayed for her mother’s pain to end and she prayed for her father’s soul. They shared the small space. The father slept on the couch, but it didn’t matter. They were healing. They were growing. They were happy again.