we need to talk.

college student. aspiring writer.

[chamkay-blog]

Then&Now

Then, in the morning light, you could see the white linoleum is stained and cracked like a crooked smile braces haven’t touched. Then, the walls were bright yellow and green, like optimistic eyes, they absorbed the light eagerly. Now it has a spectral feeling to it, not unwelcoming, but almost supernatural. Now, the walls are finished a dark wine red like the lines in my heavy, overtired eyes. The last wall adorning the fireplace is a moody gray resembling bruises from a long night. 

Then the cabinets were humble and curious, while unsure of themselves, they paid no mind to their insecurities. I smell banana pancakes, and it reminds me of my favorite book; I’m reading Judy Bloom absently picking a scab on my knee. The white plastic counters remind me of my vomit, the first time I got sick from too many marshmallows. Now the cabinets go from floor to ceiling; they want to be noticed, opened. Now has a polished feel; the granite countertops sparkle under the low lighting like a new charm on my old bracelet. Now smells of juniper, sweet like butterscotch, smoky and pungent like bourbon. My fingers are painted black, and they dance impatiently. 

Then the kitchen was decorated lackadaisically. The art placed absentmindedly about; I wear what I want regardless if it matches. I can hear pots clanging and Santana playing. Now it is decorated tastefully; the adornments are intricately placed, I am particular in the way I carry myself, extremely conscious. Now is quiet, I don’t eat but silently watch others be fed so I can go smoke a cigarette. 

Then the room revolved around a big wooden picnic table lopsided and inviting. Etched into its surface are names, lyrics and tic tac toe games of days long passed. I have nowhere to be so I stay here and read my books. Now, the focal point is a double handed oak cabinet short and tight centered right above the stove fan. The liquid guts of this cupboard are shaped like glass of differing shaped and colors. I take every single bottle out, lining them on the counter from smallest to largest. I take a single sip of each, and another, another. I wake up to my mother muttering, weeping, I’m in her lap. My head aches and I push away, “where are my grits?” is all I complain. I don’t stay here because I can’t bear to be here a second longer. The kitchen familiar to my young childhood, then, is like a ghost to me. While the floor is that which I’ve always walked, it has been replaced by a stronger more reserved material. The walls, the ones that have held the timeline of my history, no longer seem to hold the room together anymore, now they cross their arms, instead of extending them.