The Secrets a House Knows

Eighteen years spent in my current house, and I have come to know the most minute details about it. I can navigate the darkened hallways in the night, find my way to the kitchen water cooler without turning on any lights, careful where I am most likely to trip on a wayward shoe on the floor. The hallway light switch gets stuck when flipped on, the Master bathroom shower drips if not turned off a certain way. Rainy days, the droplets of water falling down the square aluminum downspout make magnified thumping sounds. Cars swish by along the busy street, sending up streams of water from their tires. At night, the sensor light mounted at the front splashes rays of bright yellow on my wall whenever a stray cat walks by; through closed eyelids, I can tell when it turns itself off when my vision darkens a shade. Sunny mornings, golden sunlight ekes through the slits in my pink fabric blinds, and I wake to the chirping of birds playing tag in the evergreen trees outside my window.

In spring, the plum blossoms burst into a robe of snow-white. In summer, one of the best places to be is angled underneath the big ceiling vent that blows air conditioning onto the maple-laminate floor. In autumn, the apple tree ripens, two varieties, one small and golden, the other striped red—trunks entwined, mated for years; the deciduous persimmon tree shows off its leaves of orange, brown, and red, like fire on the branches. In winter, a throw on the leather sofa helps warm those inclined to sit late through the night watching the big TV in the family room. The heat comes on after one slight clicking sound.

Soon I will move to another house. Built in 1970, it’s surely accumulated its own secrets and tales. The old woman who lived here before loved to garden, brightening the front- and back yards with white calla lilies, cream-petaled daisies streaked with lavender, purple bougainvillea, beauty roses, mint leaves and chives. Fruit trees stagger the backyard: orange, persimmon, apple, pluots, plum. She hung her laundry to dry on clotheslines taut across the backyard; she cooked modest meals in the small kitchen. But she fell and broke her hip, and so the house was put up for sale. Now, when I pace its grounds, getting acquainted with the unfamiliar smell of old lives and fresh paint, discovering the creak at the threshold of the front door, I wonder about my new house’s secrets, entwined with hers.

Why is there a pencil sharpener welded to the hallway-coat-closet-turned-pantry? Did she tutor once, or had grandchildren who sat at the glass-topped square table, gripping pencils and crayons with their chubby young hands?


Why is there a stack of picture frame covers on the high storage shelf in the garage? Did she paint once? Collect art? Transport it back and forth?



Why did they build a back porch that overshadows the small window of the guest bedroom, cloaking it in cool darkness? Did she once cry in its secluded corners? Did her laughter echo through the hallway? Did she stand underneath the lone skylight near the kitchen, angling up her head to see the sun pass across the sky? Did her quiet humming and soft songs float through the garden as she worked in the company of the sparrows that nested in the nearby cypress trees?

I may never unearth these secrets of the past, but as I close the door to one house and open the door to another, I will have my own memories to create, my own stories to tell. And, years from now, I will build up a new treasure trove of secrets for this house to hold in its hearth, saving the memory of a long burnt-out flame for a new owner to wonder about further down the road.