Ode to the house I remember as the one I lived in right after my aunt had died

This is an old piece, so old that I do not even have the original typed up, in Google Drive or my email inbox or as a Word doc saved anywhere. Only the edited down version lives as a post on the Peel Pages Tumblr (thanks Molly).

But I like it a lot. I thought of it quite a few times as we made the trek up the cemetery again this past Thursday, what would have been my aunt’s 60th. Two bouquets of flowers, Hannah and I.

 

I remember the summer I came home after freshman year when I had nothing planned–no summer school, no internship or job, no traveling. It was right after Hurricane Katrina had hit, months after my aunt passed away of heart attack. My parents had moved immediately to house and look my two newly orphaned cousins.

My parents’ room, I would sleep there sometimes, not having a space of my own. One morning I woke up crying. The muscles were tense in sorrow, tear ducts already in motion. I couldn’t stop the tears even after I had realized it was a dream. The girl in my dream was playing and jumping on a row of beds like Snow White and her seven dwarves. From one bed to another, she bounced across till she reached the end of the row, and I met her there to hold her in my arms. Where’s your brother? I asked, time to go now. But she looked sad as I stroked her hair, her head in my lap. I have no family, she said, I don’t have a home to go back to. I sat there, she laid still. As the body came to consciousness, I told myself, this isn’t real. But I will cry for you little girl. I will cry for you my cousin.

The living room was spacious with a real fireplace and hardwood floor, enough room for two sets of couches: one from our old apartment, another from my aunt’s old house. We held a party here once, Christmas/housewarming/birthday party for Hannah. My mom said that losing her mom shouldn’t rob Hannah of her celebration. So for her birthday two days before Christmas, we spent more than two hundred dollars buying fancy ornaments at Macy’s, per Hannah’s request: handmade glasses, colored orbs, beads and angel figurines. I got so upset with the selfishness, the extravagant planning my mom had never done for me. She invited friends for a feast and a gift exchange. We all sat in a circle in that huge living room on a sumptuous carpet, opening presents: a box of Ferrero Rocher, stuffed animals and coffee mugs. What we ate, I don’t remember. People left early, their gifts sitting unwrapped in the living room.

An arched opening from the living room led to another spacious dining room. In it was a piano my grandpa bought me a long time ago. I rarely played, but it was my jazz ensemble phase. I tried to practice that summer but only succeeded in creating miserably loud banging of keys in chords so blue my mom didn’t understand a single note. What are you playing? She would ask, and I would shut up in bitterness. She never appreciated my musical endeavors. Sometimes Hannah would also bang the keys to some Korean pop songs, sheet music of boy bands silly and sugary. One evening we were trying to have a family dinner. Hannah was hitting the keys so loud. We told her to stop–maybe she was upset at something or someone or both. It was always a fight trying to come to terms with her, see eye to eye. This lasted through the rest of that dinner.

There was a tiny bathroom by the dining room opening to Hannah’s room. It was locked from the guest side for her privacy. She had decorated it well in pink Hello Kitty paraphernalia and scented bath salts she never used. The house suffered from a drainage problem, old pipes blocked by deep tree roots. All the bathrooms would clog from time to time, and nothing would flush or drain. Sometimes sewer water filled back up the sink, the toilet, the tub, leaving us smelling like shit. It was usually me or my brother or her brother Paul, trying to plunge things into order, sometimes succeeding, sometimes not.

Hannah’s room had a walk-in closet so big it could’ve been a studio. Her clothes all hung coordinated by colors like a rainbow of shirts and jackets and dresses. Half of them I had never seen her wear. Bags and bags of them from her mom’s store now run by my parents and me. That’s what I did all summer, keeping track of tank tops and belts from small to large in red and black and white, while Hannah dropped in every now and then to take things. I protested once. My mom said, leave her alone, it’s her mom’s store. In anger I raided her closet, picking out stuff I wanted to wear. Once we had a big fight. She locked herself in that room; I was ready to ax down that door, calling her names, hollering, throwing my body against the door that did not open.

Right outside her door was the kitchen with new stove top, new oven, new microwave, new everything. I started baking for the first time. I bought butter and white flour to bake cookies: peanut butter, chocolate chip, oatmeal raisins. But nothing would come out pretty. Nothing looked anything like the ones on allrecipes dot com. For my brother’s birthday, I tried a fancy cheesecake recipe. This time it came out beautifully; I decorated and garnished with pride. Later I saw my present, still cooling in the fridge, broken. A slice missing. Hannah ate it. Even before we had the chance to celebrate him, before dinner, before my parents came home from work, she broke the cake. I was beyond angry–that must have been when I charged upon her locked door. I took off and found myself driving all the way to my aunt’s cemetery, fuming through the long L.A. traffic up to Rose Hill in Whittier. I couldn’t find her grave though and instead spent hours driving around, eventually giving up, and just sat down on the grass. Letting go.

God I have no idea how we survived it all.