The Home I Built

When first I was handed the keys to what would invariably turn into my kingdom, it was all bare bones and concrete. The windows were skewed. The doors hung at an angle. The second floor was more a grid of girders with plywood on them than an actual second floor.

Still, I had a vision for what my personal world, my sanctuary, would look like. I envisioned cool grays, whites and blacks mixed with warm chocolate tones and punctuated with little punches of aquamarine. 

I had lived with my parents for over thirty years of my existence and I felt it high time that I stepped away from that sheltered life to strike out on my own. Because of this, I had a timetable. The year would not pass by without my moving into my own space. Imagine my disappointment when, after two months, my contractor leaves without any word of notice.

I had by this time become part-owner to a little neighborhood bar, having bought into the place with several friends after the owner expressed his desire to have partners to help run the place. I rallied a troop comprised of a carpenter and his brother who did the work on renovating our bar to continue progress on my (hopefully by the time it is finished) little piece of heaven.

I don’t recall how long it took. The work would stop and start sporadically. I was already living in the space by the time paint was being done. Hard as that was, it gave me a sense of being in control of a situation that was anything but. Still, at the end of the day, the satisfaction that you are eating your sandwich made from your bread with ham and mayo that came out of your refrigerator made the ordeal worth every agony.

I have lived in this home for close to a decade. It is still a work in progress. I still change things time and again (if budgets permit). One thing will not change, though. This is a home I fought to finish. This is a home I gave birth to. This is the home I built.