What belongs to us

Not the way I set my alarm for 5 am so I can drink coffee and read, before going on a run, before going to the dentist before work. Not the way I always whisper to myself bubble gum sky when I open the blinds to the sunrise, wondering how beautiful everything really is even in suburban spaces.

Not how you usually get up first, making the coffee. How you always give me a hug when I am only a little bit awake, asking how did you sleep? while the dogs thump their tails on the couch.

Not the way every day felt the same, especially at home. How I’d retreat to the office upstairs and you’d retreat to the office downstairs. How we’d usually meet in the kitchen, how we’re always on calls, how we try to evenly split the leftovers.

Not the way we decided on a whim to turn everything upside down. How we decided to look at a house: this one was buried in a mountain, it was a dome. There was no heat, save the wood-burning stove, but there was a tunnel and an extra cabin and tall garages. Not how we signed the contract and the sellers said yes, and then the next day we changed our minds, how we couldn’t trust our minds. There was a tall tree too close to the house leaning the wrong way and the brick was actually wallpaper.

Not the next day, when we stumbled upon a falling-apart cabin on 15 acres of land. How we were under contract again, in minutes, fantasizing about the goats and llamas and cross-country ski tracks and how the dogs would run happy for the rest of their lives. What belongs to us isn’t the inspection reports, the knowledge that the bedrooms were built on a deck, that the foundation would have to go, everything would, but the land and well would be there if we wanted.

Not the way we left this contract, again, 0 for 2 and unsure what would be next. Not the way I pictured the holidays in an unknown home, not the way I never knew what the following day would be. Not the morning after, when a house went back on the market and how we saw it that day and asked about a potential offer before seeing all the rooms. Not the final contract with all our signatures and all their contingencies. The small house on the mountain with the steep driveway and outstretched porch. The wood-burning stove complimenting solar heat, the hot tub and open kitchen and brand new windows and wood floors. The fox and deer and lions and bears and bucks.

Not the way we were overjoyed for having done it, third time’s a charm, now having to strip our old home clean, to rid ourselves from existence so someone else could picture themselves there.

Not the weekend we spent scrubbing grout from the bathtub with toothbrushes. Not the weekend spent painting the walls, fixing the fireplace, replacing the siding. Not the afternoon spent washing windows from sprinkler stains and dog noses. Not the knowledge we needed a new roof, that there’s damage to the deck. Not the hail that always cracks.

Not the way we buy houses and bury things in the garage, under the stairs. We do things our own way and try to hold onto what isn’t ours to credit. What belongs to us isn’t this land or these papers or the boxes under our beds. Or our marriage day on a Monday where we signed a few papers and swiped the credit card.

A thirty dollar charge.

Not the money that makes a marriage or the countless conversations and unwoven expectations, errors and trials and front-rage trails — thousands of miles. Look how far we’ve come. We have, of course, titles and deeds with our names in black ink. I have, of course, saved all the letters I’ve written to you and all the things you’ve said to me.

Even though now I’m different, even though we are not the same and none of these words belong only to us.

Not even the pinky promises or the muddy dog prints, IPA pints or frozen pizzas.

Not even the extra set of house keys. Just look.