As a child, you learn the nooks and crannies of your home. It is your ephemeral planet.
You know how many steps it takes to get from your sidwalk to your front door. How many roses are on each bush, and what time of the year the nest is made in the maple tree on your lawn. You know that you're not allowed to go barefoot on the tiled white floors because they'll leave footprints that mummy will have to clean after a long day's work. But you'll do it anyways because the cool feeling is foreign to you.
As a child, you learn your surroundings by living in them. You know them by experience, and you know them by heart. You know where things are in the room because you've used them, or seen others use them. The family room where the toys were hidden behind the la-z-boy because that's where you could crawl and play with them without disturbing Wheel Of Fortune.
There were always things that you couldn't touch. Couldn't go into. The Dining Room was for special occasions and guests. It was a part of the home, but not really. As was the Living Room, where everything was prim and proper - like the magazines that were laid on the coffee table in the Family Room.
And you become nosy, and peek and ponder about why you can't touch things, why mummy and daddy's room is off-limits, and why you can't play with the stove until you're 16.
And as an adolescent you learn that playing with electrical sockets was always a bad idea, and that the rule about no playing hide and seek in the laundry room was for safety. Through added experience, these nooks and crannies are more than just magical wonderlands, they become tangible, and emulations of the people that live in the house. You notice that your room reflects less of what your room was built to be, and more a depiction of yourself. Your grandmother's too.
But your parents room, which you had only seen glimpses of through ajar doors, was a mystery. They were your father's secrets, and your father's past. They were the rules and stern traditions you grew up in, not being allowed to run your slippery fingers through anything in the guest room.
And you learn, the house becomes the family that lives in it.
Your grandmother becomes a locket, a Galle vase. So that when you move into a new house, you bring your old family into a new house but they are now things that your new family will live in. But do they stay the stame? Can a house become a family?
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