If 229 Villa Rita Could Speak

If our front door could hear, it would remember Dad bursting into the house after a long day at work. I was on the phone and my friend heard him say, “Hi, honey.  I missed you. Give me a kiss.” 

“Your dad speaks sweetly to your mom.” 

“He’s talking to the dog.” 

If the family room could scold, it would remind us of sibling fights about picking TV shows. I yelled, “I want Brady Bunch.” 

“No, I want Speedracer.” 

Mom walked into the room and said, “Seriously? You’re home from college for two days and this is what I get hear?”  

If our kitchen could taste, it would tell of Dad and desserts. He was the enemy, stealing our ice cream by saying, “Hey, look behind you. There’s a big dinosaur.” He was the hero when he made eating watermelon an art form. We’d use slender spoons to carve intricate tunnels. Ours collapsed quickly, but Dad created architectural masterpieces that defied gravity. 

If the laundry room could shudder, it would recall the time we almost killed our cat in the dryer. Mom and I were in the kitchen washing dishes and she heard thump, thump, thump. “Lorrie, I think something’s wrong with the dryer.”  We opened it and found our little kitten gasping for air.

If our living room could feel, it would remember us skiing across white shag carpet while Dad checked our bindings before Aspen adventures. 

If the hallway could laugh, it would remember my brother’s favorite made-up game called Stick His Mug. Mike constructed a huge pile of pillows, ran towards it at full force, and did a screaming head dive. The object of the game was to make me laugh hysterically. He succeeded every time.

If my brother’s bedroom could cry, it would remember dreams that terrified him after our great-grandma died. In desperation, Mom and Dad got Mike a puppy. On the first night, they found their sweet son curled up on the floor with his new best friend, sleeping peacefully for the first time in months. 

Even though our family left 229 Villa Rita long ago, I’m sure my bedroom still remembers me. It whispers, “This is where you closed the door to be quiet and alone.  This is where you abandoned the chaos of the day, and recharged with organizing drawers and rearranging furniture. This is where you turned pages, wrote poems, and daydreamed out the window.  And of course, Lorrie, I still hear the sound of your family saying good night.”

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Think about your childhood home. If it could speak to you, what would it say? What are the stories it might remember?

If you’d like to write about it, you can borrow the structure I used in this piece about my childhood home.

If my house/bedroom/kitchen/living room/etc. could...

talk
speak
remember
appreciate
taste
shudder
scold
tattle
laugh
cry 
(the options are unlimited)

it would....

I borrowed this structure from a picture book called And If the Moon Could Talk written by Kate Banks.

It’s a wonderful mentor text that’s inspired families to write about childhood homes during Family of Writers. I hope you’re inspired to pick up a pencil and write the stories that only you can tell.