Last week marked exactly one year since we moved into our house, and I've found myself sort of marveling at all that's changed in just twelve months. The thing is, life shifts all the time, but it's rare that you get to see progress in any sort of real, physical way, and there's just something so strange and satisfying about change manifesting itself in all the little corners of our space.
For months we moved between empty rooms with blank walls, random pieces of furniture dotting the floorplan as we hesitated to make any real sort of commitments to the space. We ate dinner on rickety lawn chairs in our living room, invited friends over for a picnic on our dining-room carpet, spent night after night slipping out of bed to turn off the lamps that sat on the floor where nightstands should have been. For months we lingered in the in between, and I loved it.
Everything felt so new, a clean slate, and the silly chaos of being new homeowners reminded me that we're still just twenty-six. We don't know. A lot of times, we just don't know, and that's hilarious and perfect and just as it should be. So much of these past few years has been about taking steps and moving forward — leaving Chicago, finding jobs, getting married — and I can't help but relish in all the mixed-up, haphazard moments that remind me how young we are. I savor the times when we're lost. When we have only eight forks for a party of twelve, so I guess we'll share. And oh, yes, there's a cake, yes, of course, so I guess we'll just have to wash those eight forks and share them for dessert, too, right? (The best.)
Twelve months later, the lawn chairs are sitting in the grass, a sofa in their place at the center of the living room. There's a stain on the carpet from a late-night dance party, a trail of tiny dots that leads from one wall to the other. Upstairs is our dining-room table, the picnics long gone, and in our bedroom, a pair of wooden nightstands holds our lamps, our wedding photo, my giant stack of books, his crosswords. Framed art lines (most of) the walls, our friends and families and memories on display, and sometimes, in the early afternoon, the sunlight hits the golden clock my mom gave us just so, and it's enough to sort of knock the wind out of me, in all the best ways.
Everything and nothing has changed. More steps, more moving forward. In our kitchen, though, piled inside the smallest drawer — twenty forks. Young, yes. But growing up, you know?