The Lost Space

Our once sacred spaces that end up forgotten.

The first space I remember living in had these dark wide floors. They might have been tile or clay. All I really remember about them was how open and cool they were and how they hurt when I fell on them.

One of my very first memories is of lightning from a storm jolting through a large window that reflected off of that floor. My tiny body was full of wonder and fear as I watched the sky crack open and the light dance for a split second.

I can barely remember the next space I called home. It was military base housing, tight and cramped, the rooms on top of themselves like a group of strangers shoved into an elevator. The carpet was old and the walls were tired and seasoned.

Then there was the space in the woods with the winding staircase.
The space in Nashville with not enough heat in the winter.
Then another space that my parents have transformed over the years where the only thing I recognize is some faux wood panelling in the den.
Then there were dorm rooms and crappy apartments.
Spaces with my lover’s furniture and then spaces with just my own stuff again.

Most of the time we talk about the places we’ve lived by laying out a list of geographic location, bereft of streets and neighborhoods or descriptions of the homes and rooms themselves.
It’s one of the reasons we’re so amazed when we visit old homes…