the walkthrough
Last night, my dad and I had a wonderful little Facetime call with each other. He was sitting on a plastic-covered seat in my late grandmother's largely emptied-out house, I on my dorm room bed. He in the dining room that fed my family for 60 odd years, I in a room that'll only be mine for 4 odd weeks more.
He, before settling on that seat, gave me a tour of the house in all it's sepia-toned glory. Black hallways were flanked by glowing archways. The kitchen1, the living room2, the stairs to the basement3.
"I'm ready, Zoe," He told me, turning around to the front stairs. He said it again as he trailed up the stairs, showing me beds stripped of their mattresses and empty closets. Showing me hallways stripped of their photos. Creaky floors leading to nowhere. He said it matter-of-factly, although I think he was reciting a line to me that he had been repeating to himself as a mantra for the last 2 years or so. Settling in my grandmother's room, he told me the story of how my grandfather built the closet in the room, a wall to wall walk in. He shaved 3 feet off the room, but it was well worth it. He closed the lights and walked out, but left the door open.
When he settled downstairs in that chair, he flipped the camera to show the dining table. No cloth, just scattered random items left from the clean-up. "So many meals here," he said to himself. We sat in silence for a bit, until he muttered, "Don't look like that, Zoe." Maybe it's the architectural mind in me that finds so much fascination in spaces and their memories, maybe it's just something in that invisible line that tethers one phone to the other. So close yet so far.
There's a comfort for me in the fact that the house will have a rebirth in the coming years, it'll be seasoned by a new family, new lives and stories. It deserves that much. Our mark has been left in little ways, in makeshift closets and semi-illegally built sunrooms, a subtle sign of the 60s-era working class ingenuity. In that spacial way, no one's ever truly gone.
Where my brother and I would roll out dough with her, stab it with forks, pour ragu on top (the specific jars of which discontinued in 2020), load just a bit too much cheese on, gingerly place packaged pepperoni slices, stuffing half of the bag in our mouths on the way, finally sliding them into her oven. We'd fiddle away at the kitchen table, mouths watering at the scent that would slowly permeate the tiny kitchen's air. Soon we'd get beyond restless and maybe watch at the foot of the oven, but of course, a watched pot never boils.↩
Where I'd sprawl across the couch while my family had coffee time after dinner. I was taught by my aunt how to make the coffee, I imagine in an effort to make me feel included before I was actually allowed to drink the coffee. President's Choice canister of grinds into the filter, a scoop per person. Fill the pot to the number on the side. Sit and wait. Sit and wait until it's ready, then carry it over and get your kudos. One time I walked into the sliding glass door of the sunroom where the coffee-maker was while carrying the pot to the living room, and splashed a whole cup's worth of hot coffee on myself. I can't remember who sacrificed their cup due to my misfortune.↩
Where my brother and I had a copy of My Big Fat Greek Wedding down there that we cherished with all of our hearts, rewinding and rewatching it over and over in the same night. In later childhood years, we grew a little tired of it and started to venture deeper into the VHS collection that sat beside the big box TV. Among the tapes was one of the night before my parent's wedding. My dad sat in a crowded living room, and a shaky camcorder showed him getting shaved by his uncle, as is tradition the night before. Each time I rewatched this little segment, I noticed one more face in that room gone.↩