Other People's Houses

It always seems darker at night when you’re in a strange place.  This Christmas I’m house-sitting for one of my mother’s good friends, and I spent last night wandering through the house trying to find a nightlight for my room.  I can’t count how many times I ran into something on my wandering.

It’s very odd to be living in a place that’s pre-arranged for someone else.  Here I have all the things that I would like to have someday in my own home—an extensive music collection with a good sound system, a fireplace and a grandfather clock in the sitting room, an old dog and a faintly hostile cat.  And all the time I am constantly aware that none of it is mine. 

Homes are intensely personal spaces.  I think I would feel odd letting someone stay alone in my home for several days.  At least this one has a lived-in feeling—there are some houses I’ve visited that are absolutely immaculate.  In these, I look around and wonder where the mess is hiding.  I think it’s better if there is a bit of mess: signs of imperfection tend to be reassuring to most of us.

Having lived for a good long time in one dorm room or another, I’ve dreamt quite a bit about what my future home will be like.  I can’t yet see it clearly, but I know it will be a reflection of myself: something quirky, untidy, filled with rich colors and knick-knacks from here and there.  And I hope that whoever comes through my door will find it welcoming.