They are opening the door to me, a stranger with a notebook, whose name they will forget tomorrow. I walk into their house, a Tutor, a Craftsman, a Rancher, a Modernist, a million dollars.

Here is what they tell me, just a copywriter:

The walls were peach and then robin blue and then some shade in between a cloud and ostrich feathers that we can’t think of. And now this color. What would you call it?

Did you see the dining room? The skylights? The way the sun crosses over the patio and frames the rose bush in peach light this time of day? It’s prolific once winter dawns … the rose bush.

This is where we eat. This is where we store our Christmas ornaments. This is where my mother died, right there, under the dark window.

But don’t mention that
or that my husband left me
or that I hated it here
or that I fell and broke my hip on the stairs
or that I wrote a poem about my lover on the built-in desk in the kitchen
or that you should never leave your car idling in the garage because it’s really airtight
or that the cat is buried under the third stepping stone on the way to the tree house
or why we are moving.

The wallpaper’s peeling. At the seams it’s pulling away from the wall, dropping pieces of bird of paradise on the toilet.

Don’t look at the
dishes in the sink
dog hair in the corner
clothes on the floor
pill bottles on the counter
underwear on the bed
whatever is in the toilet.

Do note that there’s Connecticut blue stone in the driveway. Feel it.
There’s a Thermador refrigerator in the kitchen. Open it. There’s a rainhead shower and a skylight in the bathroom. Like bathing in Hawaii. Stand under it.

We always wanted an automatic garage door, pavers out back, a willow tree, an office, another bathroom, a gas fireplace, another baby. But …

It seemed like such a good idea to put the sandbox next to the cat door
plant the infantile redwood tree next to the garage
take out the closet in the third bedroom
collect all this stuff
move.

The refrigerator does moan.
The floor is uneven there and there.
The windows stick.
You have to wait five minutes and twenty two seconds for the hot water to appear in the back bathroom.
We hate the sink. It drips no matter how hard you tighten the handles and
I’m not strong enough anymore.

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Jennifer Christgau-Aquino is a fiction writer and poet with a background in journalism and marketing. She spent 20 years editing and writing for magazines and newspapers throughout the Bay Area. Currently she owns a marketing company and studies fiction at San Francisco State University. She’s hardcore about Hemingway, doughnuts and puppies. She lives in San Mateo with her husband, two children, and cat.

Photo: Scott Webb