A House With A Heart Of Its Own by Klaudia Hanssen

What is a house? Is it the walls and the roof that make the house, with the compact downstairs bathroom, and a slightly bigger bathroom upstairs? Or maybe it’s the place you share with the ones you loved, that you call your own and keep coming back to. What do I know; I’m just a house waiting for the new owners to move in. I have seen many families come and go. Some would stay for a short while; others would call me, their home. I see them as those who have helped me grow and even change - literally. From painting the old grey bedroom, a light blue so it would be ready for their baby. To demolishing one of the kitchen walls, to make it more open and inviting; or even adding a conservatory as a place to grow seasonal vegetables and fruit.

The period in-between one family moving out and another moving in is my favourite. The not knowing, the anticipation of how the new family might be is always one of my favourite parts, because you can only imagine how they will be. In that period, it’s quiet but not the kind of quiet that’s uncomfortable or eerie. It’s the kind of quiet that is a refreshing break from the vibrant laughter mixed with talking, allowing for a brief retreat into the tranquil stillness.

Once a family had settled in, the mornings would usually start with rays of sunshine extending in from the windows - casting the golden hour beam of light inside, making everything it touched be romanticised. Not long afterwards until the repetitive beeping of the alarm clock was heard, followed by the sound of the first sluggish footsteps. Not long after that the grunting and desire to stay in bed for five more minutes took the place of serenity.

Mornings were always rushed on weekdays, with different family members hurrying from their bedrooms to the only bathroom in the house, sometimes pounding on the door or yelling or even both, to signify for the person inside to hurry up. Breakfast, however, felt less rushed, and more slothful - with the parents taking their time to contemplate and have a morning coffee before the kids had to get up. Once kids got down to the kitchen, the listless tempo adapted to the zestful energy that made its presence known. It was the breakfast during the weekend that was my favourite - with how relaxing it was then. With the weekend came the sweet aroma of cakes that would be carried on beyond the kitchen to the living room before travelling upstairs, where it would stay lingering faintly.

Or actually, my favourite time of the day was when everyone got together in the living room to eat dinner, where they would talk about their day, eat the food, and just be with each other. I think my favourite time is when the family spends their time together, letting me overlook what they’re doing, allowing me to be invited into their lives. That would explain why my favourite time of year is winter when everyone would gather together in the living room by the crackling fireplace. Sometimes everyone would be too absorbed with their phones to say a word; other times they would play an innocent game that would bring out their competitive side.

The daylight appeared to become darker, when I could see yellow car lights parking in the driveway, marking that the new owners have arrived. Out of the car came an older couple with two teenage kids - with them came a sense of briskness, feeling almost like the refreshing rain after a humid heatwave. They barely made it inside, before the white square moving truck was seen. The moving boxes were moved into the house, placed just about anywhere. The new family looked tired, in need of some sleep. Once all the boxes were inside, the night started to settle in, and with it the quietness. The overpowering sound of liveliness would be soon replaced by quietude - gently cooing the humans to sleep, before a new day was set to arrive.

Edited by Caitlin Lydon

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