Broadview Terrace

I am thirty years old, and as I sit on this deck I see thirty versions of my past self sprinting around me in various directions. In and out of the door my past selves go, the screen door slamming behind me as I bound down the porch stairs, up the porch stairs, around and around and around the deck. Sunshine and laughter follow me as my bodies move in and out of the greatest home I’ve ever known.

Allegedly it was built in 1930. My family and I aren’t quite sure, since the deed states a later date, but my Great Aunt Pat swears it was built only shortly after she was born. Between the official legality of a deed and the iron trap of Aunt Pat’s nearly century-old memory, my money is on Aunt Pat. So, if 1930 is the correct date this home was erected, then today, as I write this, the house is ninety-two years old.

It has housed six generations of family members, the eldest being my great-great grandmother Nettie and the youngest my children, Barron and Grace. Those are birthdates that span from 1882 to 2019. One hundred and thirty seven years worth of births, deaths, and everything that happens in between have squeezed their way into the walls of 137 Broadview Terrace.

And I can certainly feel it.

Some houses are simply building materials constructed into structures that people can dwell within. Walls, floors, wooden beams, nails. Voila, a house. 137 Broadview Terrace may have started out this way, but sitting in silent witness to ninety-two years of lives dwelling within it, over time our home morphed into something greater than a simple structure. The documenter of our family’s continuing story, 137 Broadview Terrace houses all of our secrets, it has encapsulated our emotions, it holds our memories close. Well after our deaths, our family members still feel us within its walls.

137 Broadview Terrace has held its dwellers tightly in times of devastating loss. It has absorbed the sounds of wailing widows and the quiet sobs of fatherless sons. Its walls have served as  protective barriers to the aging matriarch as her mind wandered away and her body tried to chase after it. It’s doors have opened in invitation to squealing grandchildren, friendly visitors, tired passerby. The home has hosted weddings and funerals, crowded parties and moments of utter stillness and silence.

I feel it all when I walk through its doors. I sense the memories and emotions of the relatives I have never met. Within the walls of our home I create my own memories, release my own emotions, into the tender care of the home that will outlive me. My hope is that one day one of my descendants feels me the way I have always felt my ancestors.

This home has a great future. Many more feet will cross its threshold. Many more memories will be deposited into its great archives. It will absorb it all as it sits in a silent, loving watch.

I have to leave this home soon, I have a flight to catch. I will leave behind yet another version of myself, one who lounges in the silky shade of the great tree as she writes about the greatest home she’s ever known.

By: Jeanette Opheim

Originally written May 22, 2022

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