Smell of grapes in the refrigerator, bulbous dark purple thingys, bunches of those stocked in one of the bottom shelves. And that of garlic from our kitchen, of yellowed books in the bedroom. Keeper of our secrets. Scrape marks on the stove. Pots and pans, scanty. Forgotten recipes in our head, saved while watching those shows on TV, in arms. Leaning, laughing. Loudly and then softer. Whispering, should our walls hear. But they are ours anyway. Bricks and mortar. Sand and love. Slippers, a couple of pairs of them, placed astray, near another couple of pairs of old shoes. Belonging to the persons, we have grown out of. That we used to be, but no longer are.
How much fun is that. Honey. How we thought we were inelastic and would never change. But we stretched ourselves, pulled strings, to be here. Now, in this home. Of sorts. Our pasts, those phases when I hadn't seen you, and you me, feel like pulling away into an insolvent memory. And we dwell in a shared history, that our lives began when we fell in love. How naive. Is that. So, pinch me.
It's not all hunky dory. Yet, it's home. Where we are our honest benign selves. Shelving tiny incidents of our days, me writing labyrinthine passages from imagination, you filling our walls with post-its. Huge, life size post-its. About what was done wrong, and what was done right.
Struggling with our singular truths.
Home alone. Home together.
See, if this drags you here?