An Ode to An Old House

It was, after all, just a house. But rarely is something just what it is.

Joel Park
Joel Park
Jul 28, 2017 · 4 min read

Standing in the empty room, he thought contentedly, “I would do this again.” The empty wood floor and the blank tan walls, the big window that looked out onto the backyard and the closet that was big enough to be a room in its own right.

The ceiling fan whirled softly, and he felt back to the first time he had seen the room, the first fall he spent working on homework on the desk, looking out over the yard and listening to the rain on the leaves.

Looking at it now, the room had just as much potential as it did before. It had lived up to it — and now it was a blank space once again.


There were things about the house that he would miss — that big and airy room, the cozy neighborhood, the front porch that overlooked the block. There were things he wouldn’t — the resident mouse that evaded every attempt of capture, the front storm door with the broken spring that wouldn’t close behind you, the kitchen sink that barely worked anymore, and the yard which so badly wanted to be a rain forest when it grew up.

But there were few regrets in that house. It had been good and it had been fun. It had formed him, and it seemed that it was mostly for the better. The late nights spent laughing, the early nights of going to bed because the day was done and so was he.

It had been drafty in the winter and hot in the summer. When he worked early in the summer mornings, he would go to bed and the stubborn sun would still be up far past its own bedtime, and the temperature was just as high. Fitfully laying on the bed, he would eventually fall asleep, but long past when he wanted to.

In the winter, they would sit in the living room and could feel the air moving around them, and each day would reveal a new hole that would admit a new breeze. It was a terrible house, really, but it was theirs, and they were friends.

It was a terrible house, really, but it was theirs, and they were friends.

The kitchen looked like it had been scrapped together from a scrapyard, and its floor was uneven and covered in a dark brown sheet of linoleum which hid dirt and dust bunnies and dropped coffee beans.

The front porch afforded a view of the entire neighborhood, and on pleasant nights they would sit, sometimes smoking pipes but more often just watching the street and feeling the breeze and lighting a candle to ward off the bugs which of course never worked. Everyone who came by agreed that the porch was the house’s best element.

To descend from the front porch to the street required an entire flight of stairs, and it was a miracle that no one ever got hurt, except for a guest one night who stubbed their toe on a loose brick that had escaped from the row of them that looked like they were placed there to hold the yard from completely spilling onto the street below.

When you sat on the porch you could see the neighbor that ran his construction business out of his house, and hear a woman reading a book aloud while puffs of cigar smoke arose from the love seat next to her and their beagles howled in the backyard. One year they set up their Christmas tree out front on the porch because the new puppy wanted to eat it.

The now-emptying house had its own decorations for Christmas; the white worn siding was lit up by big old-fashioned color bulbs and little ones that twinkled, while a cheap green light-up wreath that would not have played well elsewhere sat in the upstairs window. The house looked like Charlie Brown’s poor Christmas tree and something that fell out of the 80’s, and it looked great. Their small table-top tree was set up in the big front window of the living room, with its white lights glinting off of assorted empty cans of LaCroix.


The house that began as exciting and new had ended up old and familiar but just as exciting. They left to go their different ways — two for marriage, one for Texas, and one for more of the same but with different people and a house with less quirks.

Who knows what happened those two years — they shaped them for good, and the walls with the cheap paint and cheap labor overheard past stories regaled, the day’s events recounted, opinions discovered and formed, friendships built and tested, joys shared and celebrated, fears and sins confessed.

It was, after all, just a house. But rarely is something just what it is.

Welcome to a place where words matter. On Medium, smart voices and original ideas take center stage - with no ads in sight. Watch
Follow all the topics you care about, and we’ll deliver the best stories for you to your homepage and inbox. Explore
Get unlimited access to the best stories on Medium — and support writers while you’re at it. Just $5/month. Upgrade