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The permanence of objects has been disestablished at my house. Things can now be any where at any time. Our paintings fade in and out of the walls at will and the books gather themselves into towers with no general theme or order. My toothbrush has vanished completely - I'll have to buy new.
We have too many pairs of shoes and too many single socks.
Food seems to be multiplying and molding at an alarming pace, our fridge becoming fuller every time I open the door and we can't decide if we should attempt to eat the leftovers we can't remember leaving over. Our sink is making dishes dirty and collecting them in precarious piles. I fear the cat litter box and shelving units will evaporate one day.
My twin daughters have blended into one another to become one equally small but significantly louder version of themself. They talk twice as fast, eat half as much, and insist on my driving them every where. I wonder if their ages should be combined from 23 each to 46 together, and if so am I required to drive them any where?
My husband has been a nonpermanent structure throughout our daughters growing up. He never meant to be, but work. He never wanted to miss things that might have more importance than work, but electric bills and mortgages. He never, but.
Now, the daughters are adults, but not; he's home more, but not. It leaves me as the one who stays home, the one who handles crisis, the one who drives people places and folds towels so they fit in closets and buys the correct groceries.
I'm the closest thing to stability within our home.
I am not that stable.
Time in our home is measured by what's on tv right now.
Old episodes of Dr Phil versus Doctor Who equals sometime between 10:00 am and 1:00 pm, Monday through Friday. Back-to-back Grey's Anatomy go from 1:00 pm to 4:00 pm, provided the new Dr Phil doesn't look promising.
I had to teach my daughters the difference between probable and possible when they were in first grade. I used Santa Claus and their school teacher.
"Santa comes to our house through the chimney, yes?"
They nodded. Blue eyed girls with absolute belief. Christmas Eve happened, Santa came and ate cookies. There were crumbs, the stockings were full, this is proof in the minds of six-year-olds.
"Well, if Santa can come through the chimney, couldn't Mrs. Cooke come through the chimney?"
Still no words in exchange for my observation. Furrowed brows over blue eyes was answer enough for my children. They knew I would read their faces.
"It is possible for Mrs. Cooke to come down our chimney. But it isn't probable that she will."
The phrase "it's possible but..." is now a mainstay in our family.
It isn't probable that my house will eat furniture, but I've lost all of my couches. I had to buy a new one for the play room to accommodate the daughters while they watch Netflix and catch up on Game of Thrones. Had to make a play room so they could watch one television while my husband watches tennis and basketball, but never baseball, on the slightly larger television in the living room.
The television in the basement goes mostly unused.
My television sits to my right in my office. It is always the smallest in the house. This is a sacrifice I choose - to always take the least, the lesser, the worst of things. I am the eater of bread ends, the last to shower, the maker of compromises, the cook of many varieties of fried rice to meet the demands of differing taste buds. In my mind, this repairs any damage I might make on the people I'm supposed to love more than myself.
New episodes of Jerry Springer equals there must be something better to do with my time on a weekday at noon.
The colors on our walls are beginning to mix. The cream mixing with the cranberry like a menstrual swath across the living room, behind the slightly larger television set. The mark of three women living most of their time in one building. That watery blood we can never seem to wash out. The blood that reads fertile and health and life possibles.
My life possibles sit in the play room one set of stairs down and rewatch the entirety of the hit show Friends as available on Netflix so they can continue to avoid doing their college homework. They eat cheese popcorn and bar-be-que potato chips. They demand Mountain Dew and Coca-Cola. They come upstairs and speak in unison over the voices of every other person and the slightly larger television set that my husband's not home enough to watch regularly.
Sometimes I wish my life possibles would leave forever.
Sometimes I wish they were small children again.
Sometimes I wish I was wise enough to say 'and so it goes.'
Today I wish my presence was not as permanent as it seems to be.
My daughters like to drive from our home in Portland to the city of Seattle.
I do not have to take them there. They do not ask my assistance if there is someone else who will be their designated adult-like person.
When they don't need me, I am the terrible driver and embarrassment of a standard issue mother. Every mother is this at some time, even if she doesn't know it.
My home is quiet when they are gone. Even two-headed monster twins are miss-able when you can hear the house crackle in the wind coming out of the east. My smallest television set makes poor company.
The News begins at 5:00 if I'm feeling adult enough. If I'm the ten-year-old of my inner soul, then the news is avoidable via reruns of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, George Lopez, or The Big Bang Theory.
Time goes away over the weekends, unless The Walking Dead is playing new episodes. Then Sundays have the hours until. I fill those hours with sleeping in and naps and occasional baking. Sometimes with pancakes made from scratch.
The dogs patter after me when I go from one room to another. They break a daughter-less silence with soft moans meant to make me open doors for their egress then ingress then egress. The televisions outside my office stay off throughout the day and the air sits heavy in my ears. These are the times when the objects around me begin to embody and disembody themselves, when the tables grow high with mail and papers and odd things that I have no use for. I take the time and quiet to sort through the piles, place things where I decide they should go.
I recycle.
Clear things until I can stand to breathe.
The sunlight comes through onto my cleared surfaces and heavy air. There is a new sense of empty in the house.
My daughters generally come home when I have adjusted to all of the empty.
I do not hang art in all of the rooms in the house because my husband doesn't like my sense of too much-ness. Because when he is here, I want him to feel home-ness.
The art I do hang is what I like to call eclectic. I like to call it that because none of it goes with any of the rest. The entryway is about old style and grace, Atkinson Fox and Maxfield Parrish fanaticism.
My living room is eighteenth-century faces. Some are three dimensional. Some are men dressed as women.
I compare the dining room walls to my mind. There are faces and abstractions fading in and out; Georgia O'Keeffe and geckos and flat-backed-glass animals and a goat painted by a tattoo artist and ceramic animal heads. My daughters have told me that the dining room walls are scary, but they cover the dining room table with their things nonetheless.
Our guest bathroom is useless clock faces and Escher prints. Muted floral shower curtains.
My bedroom is Japan and Wonderland.
My house might have rooms I don't know about yet. I don't look often.
(C)2025 Sally K Lehman, All Rights Reserved