Home
My basement is home to one of those old traditional glass doors; one with two huge glass panes and without any tracery or dividers. The door sits adjacent to my TV so when I am watching television or doing my homework I often find my eyes wandering over to the door to look outside. Outside that sliding glass door is a handmade patio deck that me and my boyfriend made two years ago. Sometimes I count the 2x4’s that we made it out of. Past that deck is our yard which is home to a number of enormous trees that provide the best shade for games in the summertime. Our firepit sits amongst those trees directly in line with the view of our basement door.
The pit, which now in the winter time has our deck chairs stacked on top of it, conjures so many memories of s'more making, storytelling, game playing that has built the life and the place we call home. Just past the firepit is our wooden fence. Each wooden spoke relies on the one it’s connected to, not only to mark our property line, but to contain the animals it houses and endure the seasons. Often when I look out of the glass door I see our huge old english mastiff roaming his domain. That wooden fence has been witness to two english mastiffs, numerous doggy birthday parties, countless backyard camping events, and so many storms. The dark grain of the fence represents years worth of dirt, rain, and snow accumulation. Some spokes are far lighter and look as if they don’t belong; these are ones we’ve had to replace do to fallen branches breaking them. Some of those same heavy branches lay scattered in the backyard now as a huge wind spell has forced them to take residence there.
When you walk through the sliding glass doors you are exposed to another world. A world in which you experience a fraction from the inside of the door. As soon as I opened the sliding glass door I was hit with a rush of cold air and the loud howling of the wind whipping by. The cold air made me think of the last time it snowed. As I stepped out onto my patio I was taken into a different perspective; the view that seemed open and endless from the inside became enclosed and immediate once outside. An upper-deck to my left placed me almost underneath it as it towered over me. This sensation was reciprocated in the immense nature of the trees. As the wind blows I can smell the mulch under the deck and soil in the empty flower garden to my right. I see leaves and branches rustled by the forcible wind while my neighbors try to save articles from their lawn from the gusts. I hear dogs barking to one another from across the neighborhood and the sound of kids playing at the park located a block behind my house. All the sights, smells, colors, and sounds belong to a place that is mine. My home. My home is undoubtedly my favorite place to be, even if I, like others, forget to cherish everything it has to offer me.
