dear College House,
dear College House,
i miss you already.
as the days tick down to graduation, we are subconsciously planning your funeral. milestones keep passing: the last halloween, the last birthdays, last family dinners, last, last, last. i am compelled to write you a letter, or perhaps a eulogy.
we’ve overlooked your flaws. your struggle to produce strong water pressure. your light fixtures that sometimes work, but mostly remain dark. your overgrown bushes. your fireplace that is sealed off. your one outlet that sparks sometimes, but don’t worry about it.
we, instead, take time to honor your best qualities. your living room with enough space to fill with friends and family. your large windows that cast a warm glow over the house at dawn and at dusk. your garden that adorns the front and offers up passionfruit which we feast on, gratefully.
we’ve even turned some of your flaws into charms. the way the door creaks, loudly, when someone comes in. but that just means one of our best friends is walking through the door, home from a long day of class. the way the insulation, or lack thereof, leaves us shivering and cold in the rain. but that just means we need to huddle into one room; need to be closer to each other. the way the walls are thin enough to hear people across the house. but that just means you can hear laughter ring out when someone’s told a joke in the other room.
College House, my love, all of your flaws and charms will be missed. but your kitchen will be missed most of all.
your College Kitchen with just enough space for the five of us to cram in. talking about everything and nothing all at once while aromas from five separate meals fill the house. pans crashing into each other as we jostle for space on the stove. someone saying “here try this” and holding up a spoon to your face. sometimes, “do you want dinner?” and the offer of a whole serving because they know you are just too busy, too tired, too grocery-less to cook today. the sound of one person humming along to jazz as they cook family dinner that week. pop music filling the house as someone does dishes and scrubs the kitchen until we can see our reflections in the aluminum counter top. the melodic * ding * of the microwave or toaster and subsequent rush to the kitchen to retrieve whatever was cooking. how dishes break, pans weather and scratch, pots dent from heat. how new mugs, plates, bowls, pots, and pans take their place. how College Kitchen morphs, grows, and changes. how we morph, grow, and change too.
i hope this letter, eulogy, frantic grasp at slowing the passage of time, reaches you well. College House, i thank you. i love you. and i cherish you always.
with love, admiration, and a bittersweet sigh,
kathryn maeve
p.s. to the lovely people that i’ve been so lucky to share this space with: i love you most of all. thank you, for everything.
