Assignment #4: Still Home

Assignment #4 was about setting; we were asked to describe what a person would see, hear, smell, on entering our home. I chose to write it from the poing of view of my elder son returning home after a long absence. 

Still Home

The front porch was new, although it could hardly be called a porch, with no railing and just one step up onto a poured concrete block. And the garage door had finally been replaced with one that opens automatically with a keypad. He recalled how he and his younger brother hated the old one which would fly open towards you when it came off the spring, and was almost impossible to close. His Dad always said you just have to be careful, and he’d reply angrily “that stupid dam thing could kill me!”

The screen door, new ten years ago maybe, wasn’t quite straight and didn’t close tight, but knowing his father that wouldn’t be considered a problem worthy of any attention. Now the question is, will his old key still unlock the front door, which, he noted, was in need of a fresh coat of white paint. Yes!

The front hallway hadn’t changed at all from what he remembered. Small table in the alcove at the door, where his Dad always sat to put on his shoes, and three mats on the opposite side for about a dozen pairs of shoes for all seasons. He smiled when he saw his mother’s tiny sandals and her soft slippers for indoors. He noticed the framed blue Chagall lithograph hanging by the door, which his dad insisted would be worth a lot of money one day. And there was the wooden shelf mounted high on the wall, with the five hooks for hats and scarves; he remembered how pleased his parents were after finding it for $15 at a Pickering flea market. Only his dad’s faded Blue Jays cap was hanging there now that it was spring.

He kicked his loafers off and walked in towards the kitchen. The old linoleum flooring made him feel sad; how often had they talked about redoing the kitchen, and yet here it was, the same as it had always been. Cupboards stained dark walnut, walls cream coloured, fridge, stove and dishwasher matching black. He reached for a glass from the cupboard beside the fridge and was not surprised to the same ones he had used as a kid, but at least the coffee mugs were newer. Sure enough, there was a pitcher of cold filtered water at the front, next to the same no name orange juice he hated so much.

Glass in hand, he walked from the kitchen to the dining room, stopping to look at the teak China cabinet filled with those beautiful hand painted ‘Occupied Japan’ cups and saucers his dad had hoped would quadruple in value. The Chagall might be worth something, but nobody seemed interested in collecting vintage tea cups these days. As always, the matching teak dining table had a centrepiece to go with the season, in this case some long stemmed Japanese Irises surrounded by a pale pink flower he didn’t recognize. The runner beneath the flower arrangement was an red silk Japanese obi, one of several his mother changed with the seasons. Odd how they only used the dining room when they had guests for dinner.

He stood for a few moments at the sliding door leading on to the deck, but didn’t go out. He could see the gate in the fence at the end of the garden where he and his brother used to pass through to get to school, one of his father’s better ideas. Nothing much had changed, aside from the tool shed their new next door neighbour had put up in their back yard. The grove of tall Weeping Willows in the playground behind were in their full majestic glory, just as he remembered from his early childhood. 

He turned to the living room, still dominated by the large screen TV in the corner towards the kitchen, although this was a newer model, and there was no Nintendo game set on the shelf below. He used to like watching his younger brother get excited playing Donkey Kong, but that memory seemed so distant now. Same faded red leather sofa set they’d had for years, and the same big rectangular coffee table in the middle of the room. The fish shaped candy dish was still there, but it was empty, which struck him as sad. He sat down in his fathers old recliner, facing the TV, but it wouldn’t recline when he pulled the lever back. It probably hadn’t for years.

He felt a strange sensation, as if he had jumped through time and was suddenly much older than when he first walked in. Was it the house that had changed? Was it because his parents weren’t here now, and weren’t due back until Friday? Something was missing, something important, but he couldn’t place it. The TV was always on in the background when his dad was home, but that wasn’t it. And then it came to him, the missing element, the thing that was always here, day and night – the sound and smell of his mother’s cooking!

Agedashi tofu! Yakitori. Tempura. Udon. Tonkatsu. Chawanmushi. Okonomiyaki. Curry rice. Tamagoyaki. He could imagine the appearance of every meal, and even the dishes they were served up on! The smell of the oils and the butter. And the very pungent aroma of Saba shioyaki, that only he and his mother would eat. The sizzling sound as the breaded pork was placed into the hot cooking oil, so skilfully done using long O-hashi so as not to splatter. The rapid chop chop chopping sounds of fresh vegetables being sliced and diced on the cutting board. And something else, something that made it all so very special. The sound of his mother humming and singing phrases from Japanese songs. Never an entire song, just parts here and there, as she prepared his favourite meals, which somehow made it all the more delightful. That’s what’s missing, he smiled.

Ken Bole

CW Assignment #4