A Specific Room I Grew Up In
I grew up in a large brick rambler home that sat on 100 acres in Hartwood, Virginia. As a child, I can see why it seems huge in my mind. If I were to travel back there now as an adult, I’d probably be surprised how much smaller scale it actually is. Kind of like those bathroom stalls in elementary schools that when revisited as an adult make you feel like Alice in Wonderland.
There was a dark foyer off the side of the large, bright formal living room I’d often play pretend in. Not sure why I chose to pretend I owned and ran a retail store with EDM music in the most formal room in the house rearranging the delicately placed porcelain, but I did. To the left, was the formal dining room that was attached to the kitchen. The middle of the room faced a huge bay window that spread out across the wall overlooking the front yard toward the driveway. And to the right, was this small dark foyer with the front door. No one ever came in that front door because the entrance everyone actually used was from the family room facing the backyard. It was as if this beautiful floor plan and dark windowless foyer was a room in hiding. It had an antique sewing machine made of wrought iron that weighed about a thousand pounds, I imagine. I was the kind of child who inspected everything. I was curious and always coming up with games to find the narrative around certain items. “How can I use an old board game of monopoly?” It also had the coat closet that smelled like wood chips and housed my step-dad’s members only jackets.
I never made much use of that room, per sae, but it had character to it. A coat rack to the left of the never-used double doors, that antique sewing machine that flipped and turned into a desk and the coat closet - that’s it. The floor was dark tile, like a charcoal color painted the room throughout. Most foyers are meant to be welcoming but this room was where the sun didn’t shine like the west wing. It was the first room to the left before the hallway led to the laundry room and back two bedrooms where my 2 older siblings lived. The bedroom doors that were slammed in my face as I chased my sister to her room when her friend was visiting. “Let me in, Let me in!” That foyer may have represented the unwelcome section of the house and explained why I was so much more free and playful in the sunny, fancy living room with white furniture next to it. Where the rules I made up and the shop I ran was a fun space all my own as a child.
I had to leave that house at 12 when my parents divorced suddenly without much explanation to me. By that time, my older siblings had either married or trickled out as young adults. I didn’t necessarily get a proper goodbye to the house. As a matter of fact, I don’t even remember a token goodbye wave from the backseat of the car when leaving. My beloved cat I cared for for years disappeared and my mother didn’t have the heart or know-how to brace me for all the change.
Soon, I’d be in a suburban, ground level apartment building to face my highschool years and would never see that dark foyer again with old trinkets and especially nobody wearing those members only jackets. My imagination shifted to falling in love with musicals and old hollywood films during the time before technicolor. I’d also watch endless episodes of a master chef show after school while eating frozen lean cuisine ravioli. I never questioned my post family divorce diet. I was content with my TV arts show and processed italian frozen dinners… somehow. Never missing that room, the house and carrying on as if all was well. One day at school, I haphazardly discovered a certificate on my teachers desk that read, “Sarah Cary - Most Adaptable to Change”. When I read it with the teacher watching, the crinkle on my brow and surprise expression must’ve given her cause for concern. It was the only clue I’d read that acknowledged the changes in my life. I never did receive that certificate officially. Eventually, my misplaced attachment to things lost found its home. I attended a monday night church service that woke up my dormant passions and instead of making any peace with the loss directly- I attached myself to a new cause: the Gospel.
It feels like a lifetime ago I was in that house with the room I can recall but no one hardly used. To this day, the slight smell of wood chips on clothing reminds me of that closet. The scent of the dad I knew and loved but would never see again. The sweet nostalgic remainder from the house I grew up in.
