House where I lost my virginity
and found myself.
House where I drank more beer than a body ever has a right
to
and stopped drinking beer, for good.
House where I lost all pretense that purple eyeshadow looked
good
and learned the feminine power of vintage dresses.
House where I made more friends and kept more friends
than any other place I’ve ever been.
(House where my children have made friends too.)
House where I’ve greeted the dawn
by eating Froot Loops floating in a bowl of beer.
House where I’ve shared morning showers
and heard laughter echo off the tile walls.
House where I’ve worn someone else’s bathrobe at breakfast
and started raging rumors.
House where I sat in front of the fireplace
ruminating and procrastinating, cuddling and debating.
House where I watched MTV and “V” and Bugs Bunny
and listened to the music, loud, that continues to sustain
me.
House where I learned how important it is
to hit a cup of keg beer with a ping-pong ball.
Again and again and again and again.
(And where I learned how hard it is to keep sipping your
beer
when it gets hit in rapid succession.)
House where I tried pot, acted incredibly stupid,
and gave it up gladly.
House where I ceased to be defined by my ancestry.
House where my room was such a mess
that friends came in and tidied up in my absence,
laughing at my stuff.
House where I cheered the ground-shaking THUMP of a urinal
hurled off the roof.
House where I dispensed advice
and sought it in equal measure.
House where I shed my angst
and found my soulmate.
House of love. House of laughter. House of hope. House of
belief.
Our House.
