I see this as an adult, one of the rooms is the size of my Brooklyn studio, and that's small for me (and my stuff).
In Rhode Island, it was actually the room where I was conceived. Where 3 boys grew at one time, 2 girls in the room next door.
Visiting the three family house was always an experiment in time travel.
The first floor was now. But it was oddly, 1960. In the Azores, in America. A Disneyland version of dolls in grim reaper costumes. They dwarfed working windmills. Working until we broke the threads that represented their sails.
When the eldest got married, she moved upstairs. My prototype for how far away daughters were really allowed to live. Once they grew up.
My mom had plans for an expansion of the attic, if my father had stayed alive. As if I would be grown, living there. If he were alive, I would have been more responsible sooner. And on my own.
The second floor was modern, as of 1980. No telltale Portuguese anything, except cooking smells. That had been left downstairs.
The third floor was more rare to visit. Almost designed for tomorrow. A floor of wedding shower gifts and hifi and electronic equalizers. It was always too transient, which also meant it was the cleanest and most up to date. All the mistakes quickly ripped out.A floor of the brothers and their failing marriages. All the cousins (except the last daughter and me) have been married at least twice.
The stairwell was a square spiral staircase, wooden, rubber mats on each step. You always know when people are coming or going, and everyone knew everyone's business.
Except me. I lived in a house of everything layered on itself. A collection of yard sale items from divorced dads of Lincoln. Sunday drives in the country, looking at rich people's houses, imagining how we would live in them.
My father warned me not to buy books.
But I wanted to steal knowledge, to listen in, to eavesdrop on every family. To see what I was missing. And always, reassure myself that my missing father was different.
The first and most perfect man.
I dismiss my dates if I can't have a decent conversation. My father was my model for how to stay curious and delighted. My main cheerleader. He loved me unconditionally, and my mind too.
That's what I miss.
