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That house was unlike any place I’d ever been before. A shimmery golden, it was built with clean straight lines and sat comfortably alone amidst the empty foothills. It was surrounded by scrubby brown grass and olive green eucalyptus trees typical of Northern California. A thinly split two lane road ran in front of it. If you had an hour to spend and the desire sparked, you could take that road all the way to the top of the mountain. But if respite is what you craved, then you only needed to turn around and walk the few steps into that little yellow house as I did that summer day in my eleventh year.The sun hung low in the sky by the time we arrived for the party. I waited at the bottom of the porch and looked up at the tall figure. The screen door squeaked hello as she opened it gently and welcomed us in. As my parents exchanged hellos, I peered around them into the room. The fragrant smell of patchouli floated toward me and tickled my nose, I couldn’t help but follow.

Long metal tubes of a wind chime brushed my hair as I ducked around them and into the house. I reached out and strummed the tubes. Clank, clank, clank. A metallic tinkling sound erupted. Oops! I thought and kept on moving. Wooden planks creaked under my feet as I walked around. The late afternoon sun cast shadows about the room and tucked in little pockets of darkness, candles flickered giving off a warm glow. A light breeze tinged with coolness blew gauzy white curtains aside revealing rows of sun colored glass bottles that lined the sill. They were a blend of amethyst and amber. Overflowing green plants suspended by a macramé dangled from the ceiling.

Crowds of people wandered around mingling and chatting. Carol King’s Tapestry album played from the stereo. Her soothing voice weaved with the crowd’s frequent bursts of laughter and clinking glasses. There was nothing manicured or stuffy about the place. We weren’t at my Auntie’s; no one sat poised in Queen Anne Chairs and sipped tea and cookies. There were goblets full of wine and tall glass pitchers of lemonade. Platters were filled with tangy blue cheese and creamy camembert, crisp red grapes and sesame crackers. Along side it was fried chicken and an assortment of salads. I spent the next few hours sipping my lemonade picking through the selection. Later, I plopped down on a soft oversized cushion more stuffed than I and looked around and smiled. I was happy.

That house was filled with more energy than anywhere I ever been. It breathed lightness and space. I wanted to stay forever. As we drove away I turned and looked back. It glowed in the darkness, a nightlight guiding friends to its door. I never went there again. But the memory burns bright and as the years went by I found my self searching to find it again. It never occurred to me to create it for myself…until now.

Tags: Creative Writing

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