At first glance it looks seamless.
Shiny, original hardwood floors. New appliances. Neutral color décor. Clean beige walls.
Then you start looking.
The 1940s-built place has cracks. Layers of paint are pealing – some layers that are probably made of lead paint.
You watch your step on the front porch, since each step is a different height.
Doors and drawers don’t close completely, thanks to the layers of paint.
The walls are plaster, not sheetrock – they’d survive a punch, but a fist sure wouldn’t.
It’s a home with many flaws.
But it’s home, nonetheless.
A one bedroom, cozy, I-can’t-wait-to-relax there home.
A wine-sipping call to the back porch, looking out to nature.
It’s a safe haven from the madness surrounding it. Like the ambulances that pass by daily. Or the crazy neighbor who chases and cusses at her dog when it gets away. And I can’t forget the old man from across the street who asked me on a date to the Shrine Club.
It was a fun time – just kidding.
It’s my first place, my first home.
Sometimes I like for it to look like nobody lives there, like a magazine.
Other times I’m fine with a mess.
It’s where I planted the roots to my career.
It’s where I cook my Grandma Reba’s pound cakes.
One of the best things about it – rent is cheaper than an Apple Watch Series 2.