The Reenactment of Home
Shining through the car window, the sun reflected on the dark concrete road in contrast to bright green trees and decent, neighborhood houses that surrounded it. Trevor's friend, Charles, turned his truck onto 12th street; more houses on both sides and street poles leading above the trees, sidewalks, and metal fences covered with the smell of yesterday’s rain. Some porches held the American flag, and a few also held small wind chimes that twinkled throughout the air and left Trevor feeling at ease. A field of grass in front of each house, the front yards leading out to the neighborhood roads, Trevor felt pressure to recall memories when looking out on the passing sidewalks. Leading to one another events that succumbed to his mind, like times he would walk home after school alone, slightly feeling the anticipation he felt, observing those images of himself running across the roads to the woods to cry; After turning 20 years old, paying half of his college tuition in half melancholy, the trip to Charles' family house for summer came across Trevor’s schedule during one afternoon in his dorm. And, since Charles is turning 22, his father texted he wanted him home for two days. Of course, Trevor didn't mind having plans for summer with just Charles, avoiding thinking if his own father wouldn’t mind him staying the night for a week. But when talking to his friend about it, Charles then invited Trevor along, and Trevor thought providing himself the availability and that it would be nice to be inside another person's house with another person’s family. He didn’t tell Charles, however, that he lived in a neighborhood just like his, and instead told him he grew up in a nearby town about 12 miles from campus. Recalling specific moments as the white clouds in the sky and the red sign of ‘STOP’ became the ghostly omens floating above his childhood memory, all coming back to set up a scene as he drifts softly across as if they followed the truck, knowing as though he arrived back.
The few minutes that passed were enough for Trevor to hypnotize himself, down where the lines on the road rushed by. Then, as if skipping ten seconds of frames of a movie, the truck stopped moving and he stepped out. He carried his bags first but stopped to observe the house they were near, its design was the same as the others: red frames for windows that contrasted the dark green walls all around the house; the pointed roofs with small curves at the of the sharp ends, and the porch at the end of the concrete path, on the front yard, was practically lighter green. The sun hugged the edges as the trees on both sides gave the walls texture - It was, in all, a standard house much like any other home.
Although Trevor minded the deja vu of the place, now that they arrived, he nearly matched his own home with his own parents inside waiting for him. He asked Charles if he could wait outside, excusing he wanted to ‘take it all in’ before entering. So he watched as Charles walked up to the door and knocked.
When the door opened, and Charles was hugged, a lady waved to Trevor, assuming that it had to be Trevor; suddenly, he became hesitant to approach the house. He imagined Charles’ parents watching them park the truck, get out, observe Charles walking up to the door, and now watch him from the porch facing the road.
All it took was one step forward, holding his bag and Charles’, and Trevor waved, walking up the path and getting ready to smile and say, “Hello, you must be Charles’ mother.”
Walking inside and out of the sun, half of Charles’ family waited in the living room and the rest out in the backyard. Showering him with smiles, his mother half tenderly asked if he needed help carrying some stuff, fully embracing his arm and moving him further within the house as Trevor remained still, just watching. It’s good she hugged him right away, Trevor thought cautiously, trying to be proud. Then, embracing another thought: “You're gonna have to be brave,” he said under his breath. "Be brave for me, Trevor.”
Finally walking along, Charles, still holding the bags, accepted being a stranger in the house with the air becoming settled. Can’t turn back now, he thought, hearing the front door shut behind them.
He left their bags by the stairs, “just leave them there; we’ll let you get settled,” Charles’ father said, and walked out into the bright backyard with his mother and the rest.
After some passage of time, Charles was greeted by his father, hugging him again and introduced Trevor; he shook hands with his sisters, brothers, and a few relatives, hugging them awkwardly, becoming conscious if wearing the black sweater was a mistake afraid to admit to himself he was sweating.
Finally, he took a break, meeting people like Charles’ little brothers and sisters who followed Trevor around; he then wanted to go into a bathroom to cool off.
I bet it isn’t always like this, he thought occasionally; I’m sure his parents fight and talk over his education, money, and friends. Courage had to be asked of himself as Trevor made his feet move forward outside and through the tables, going from one smiling family member to another; the backyard was warm, and the clouds shadowed the party every few minutes. With every cycle of cool air, walking closer to his mother, he managed to hold his drink poured by Charles’ father and surely, not rudely, tried his best not to spill it, processing if the smiles were supposed to pass him painlessly.
Then, walking through on the grass, their light-brown dog by the metal fence surrounding the backyard, acknowledged him and barked and began walking towards him, wagging his tail as he harshly jumped on his legs. Trevor almost dropped his cup. “Benji must love you,” Charles said, holding a balloon with ‘Happy 21st Birthday!’
“Benji, get over here!” The dog froze. Trevor stood still. Benji ran towards Charles, surrounded by his old friends, all turning to look at Benji. Once they giggled, everyone turned to Trevor and chuckled. Charles’ mother said, “It’s okay, he does that with every newcomer. He’s just a good dog when it’s a good time.” The dog turned around by Charles’ leg to face Trevor and panting heavily - it seemed to be laughing at the statement.
Then, “Mrs. Nelson?” Trevor managed to say, placing his cup slowly on the table near the dip and chips.
“Pardon, sweetie?” Charle’s mother said. She turned her head, sitting down on a chair; red lipstick against her white, perfect teeth.
“Do you think I could use the restroom?”
“Of course.” Mrs. Nelson points at the white backdoor of the house, “Just go straight into the living room, and after the stairs, there’s a small hall.”
Charles overheard and said cheerfully, “If it's occupied just go use mine upstairs.”
Trevor nodded, marching towards the doors, the nice polish stairs leading up. His mother then quickly said, “Oh! when you come back, bring your swim trunks, we're gonna begin a game.” Nodding, Trevor glanced around and realized, before stepping out of the sunlight and into the house, I wondered if they try to make it like this all of the time.
The living room he walked past was much like his parents: the couch design had the same taste as his mother’s, remembering vividly now he once spilled coke on the cushions. Trevor looked near the lamp on a small nightstand by the couch to see if the dark stain was there, only to wake his consciousness up and figure he was not at home. He instructed himself in a voice like his mother’s to walk past the stairs. He laid his hand on one of the lamps, touching the shade and feeling the energy warm his fingertips. Turning back to the hall, dimly lit by the windows in a room on the left, he was about to see if the door, assuming the last door down was the restroom, had any sign someone was in it. Hearing the small echoes of voices of family outside a stronger voice peered through the ghostly silence, that being a little boy on top of the stairs.
White sunlight reflected off the walls from a window somewhere upstairs, and a soft mist of light showed the boy’s eyes staring at him, wearing a black hoodie and jeans, and a pair of muddy sneakers. “Someone is in there,” the boy said.
Trevor nodded stubbornly, wiping his hair back, as a long sadness came over his chest. “Just come up here and use this one. Charles said you could use it. Here, let me show you where.” The boy used his hands to take one foot to stand and push up both completely. He waited, his stance more confident than a usual nine-year-old, and Trevor, overcome by some deja vu, approached the handle dreamily and took one step up. Turning back as though he would appear to be going into buried family secrets, he asked, “Are you one of his little brothers?” The boy smiled and responded, “It’s this way,” and walked out of the corner.
Taking another step, observing the wall, its white texture forming a deep cut inside, the stairs, its brown color moving out from the bottom of his sneakers (dried mud staining the edges), it struck a sound he remembered with each step. I’ve run down these exact steps, he thought. He makes it to the top, and the boy says, standing near an opening door down the hall, “his room is in here,” then proceeds to disappear. Somewhere along this house, as Trevor thought, walking close to the door that the boy ran in, I belonged here and somewhere I meant to be back here. The hall had a window showing the truck parked in front of the house.
He turns the corner and sees the boy lying down on his bed, the bedroom almost looking exactly like his room: same door frame, same blue wallpaper, and the same nightstand with the lamp shade, always protecting him against the darkness within his own home. The boy pointed as soon Trevor walked past the door, “It’s over there. Take as long as you need.” As Trevor passed the door frame, he pictured himself standing taller than anything else in his room. He thought if he was in college everything would look so small to him as passed the bed, the wooden cabinets, his toys, and his xbox that he never took out of the box. Everything had to be smaller, he thought, before he heard his mind suddenly raise a sting of cries within his eyes. The door behind him shut and a cold ache of fear finally caught up to him. “Mom, dad, where am I?”
He tried cleaning his bedroom yesterday morning but couldn’t bring himself to seem worthy of a clean room. After waking from a heavy fight against his blankets, like a strong force keeping him down, he stepped away from his bed and ran towards his door then down the hall. The loud smack of the door awoke his father and mother, who sat downstairs in the living room, having fallen asleep after watching TV of a late-night game show. Going down the brown stairs and past the small hall, both the faces of his mother and father found him in tears. His mother quickly got up and asked, “What’s the matter?” Trevor, being 9 years old, said frighteningly, “I don’t know what's wrong with me, I had the most horrible dream.”
Mother, as always, assured Trevor in a usual optimism that his dreams were a product of heavy fever, where the mind creates frightening scenarios to prevent mistakes while he sleeps safely in his bed.
And, like always, his father comforts him as his mother stays with him until he falls asleep, checking his temperature and, like always, the house he lived in stayed the same as the rest. The moon shone through the window as Mrs. Nelson, his mother, turned the lamp off and headed towards the door. With the beautiful field of grass in front of each house and leading out to the neighborhood roads and patches of trees hugging the back of the homes, there was a stunning recall of Trevor when looking across his bedroom and to the windows. After his parents paid half of his years of school with half melancholy and stuffing his anxiety within, the trip to orientation last Friday for an elementary school outside of town, his summer this year, he felt would come and strangle his youthful strength. Stressing how to begin his season properly, feeling he wasn't capable of making up all of the lost time suffering, he feared he wasn’t getting the most out of his youthful life being set for more rows of meetings with teachers, setting up school supplies, and doing at-home tests. Since Trevor turns 10 soon, he doesn't have any plans for this summer. Taking it so much to heart, he thought it would prove to be more knowledgeable to be inside his own house than anywhere outside. But soon, like every night, the door to his bathroom would open on its own, and like always, it set itself back to square one the night before. Suddenly, Trevor heard, “Just go to bed, Trevor. Just close your eyes and go to sleep.” And the boy appeared, the blue mist, the moon, the shadows all contrasting his face to be one, lonely face out of all young memory, marching out slowly from the dark door frame of his bathroom. “Cool off, Trevor. Just relax and cool off.”
