Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page.
Where I Live
By Ken Delpit
When I walk into where I live, I smell memories. This is where we first beheld what would be our first and only home, from the inside. Over there was where his first, very tentative, steps took place, from the parquet mahogany coffee table to my luring, waiting hands. Right there on the carpet is where she often would get rolled up into a daughter burrito, with auntie-made birthday blanket as tortilla, and with generous gobs of tickling cheese.
When I walk into where I live, I smell unfulfilled should-haves and wish-I-hads. I wish I had done this, that, and especially that, better as a parent, and for that matter, as a husband. I should have taken care of that household repair long ago. I should have spent more time finding and sharing fun, for fun’s sake. I should either do this once and for all, or put it out of my mind for good. I should get over not knowing then what I know now.
When I walk into where I live, I smell winter. Until we got the piano, that’s where our live Christmas tree usually was, with its fragrant evergreen perfume bringing just a bit of northern winter indoors. This is where our menorah was placed, lit, and honored, its candle wisps and aromas catching updrafts from the old Fisher Grandpa stove, its fires crackling with family-warming energy.
When I walk into where I live, I smell excitement, mixed with ample dashes of fear. Right there is where I stood in 1989, watching the overhead lamps sway, hearing the disconcerting noises from things that were ordinarily stone-silent, and feeling the ground lose all its certainty. I smell the fried casings of the electrical surge suppressors, which did their jobs nobly in death, from that spectacular, spiking-voltage, indoor fireworks display that one year. I smell the accidental-and-unlucky spillages from the kitchen that meant we would eat out that night. I also smell the accidental-but-happy, forgot-to-put-the-top-on-the-blender spillages that meant we could only laugh.
When I walk into where I live, I smell love. Wholesome aromas waft steadily from the many life’s-purpose-reminding family photos that still hang on the walls. The hand-drawn and hand-painted pieces of art from our children’s lives make it gratefully impossible to pass by without returning to former times. I smell the ghosts of the many pets that once called this family theirs.
When I walk into where I live, I smell home.
Ken Delpit must admit: One of the real joys of writing is that it gives one a chance to say something without any back-talk—at least, for the time being. Of course, this doesn’t count his own critical sass. But that’s another subject. In the meantime, Ken enjoys the explorative nature of writing, exploring both inwards and outwards.
