Hi, I'm Maxine: clarinetist of 7 years, equestrian of 11 years. I also really like reading which lead to liking writing. Oh, and music. I really like music.
Written By: Maxine Scherz
February 10, 2015
Walking into my house there is a cut up rug on the floor, it used to be gray but is now stained from spilled drinks and food and an old dog living out its days on the gray rug. Covering the cut up gray rug is a couch and two rocking chairs, in between these is an overflowing wooden coffee table full of hopes and dreams, magazines and trash, paper towels and plates.
Other houses in Wayland aren’t cluttered and messy and left uncared for. They are prim and meticulously designed down to the position of the throw pillows on the ever perfect couch.
When I had my friend over from one of these nice houses, I rushed them through the tour. Past the messy living room with a shirtless brother lounging on the couch, through the kitchen with my dad singing an old Grateful Dead tune (completely tone deaf) and dirty dishes piled in the sink. Down the painted black hall with a rolled up rug. Past the tiny bathroom cluttered with hair and makeup supplies and a water stained door and into my room. My yellow room with pictures on the wall where the clutter is fractionally less. I was going fast enough they hopefully wouldn’t notice the clutter. It seemed as if the house was more chaotic than usual.
When they left I rushed them back down the hall and out the door hoping one more time that they wouldn’t notice. I closed the broken screen door and then the tan wood door. I walked back to my room wishing I could knock this house down and build a new one. A better one. One with fresh cut flowers to greet you at the door and a stainless steel kitchen and an open hallway instead of the dark enclosing one, but I didn’t do that.
Now my house is even worse. We are redoing our downstairs floor, so everything that usually resides down there is now in the middle of the living room. We moved the couch to a place where we could stack more stuff on it and eat dinner. The gray rug is still there: I don’t think I ever want to throw it away. It holds too many memories. Now I don’t care about the other houses in fancy Wayland. My friends now walk freely through my scatterbrained, complete mess, lovably quaint house.