The Home I Will Build For You

Let me tell you about the home I will build for you, my love.

I will build you a fine home where the front door is made of laughter, and when you knock on the door, it giggles and asks the knocker to stop knocking, because being a door made from laughter, it tends to be ticklish and it would be greatly appreciative if they, the knocker, would be so disposed as to use the doorbell.

Once inside our home, visitors will be inclined to notice the special wallpaper that runs down the length of the west-facing hallway.  This is a very rare wallpaper that I will have to travel far and wide to find, it is made of butterflies.  Every visitor will attempt to get closer to look at the patterns of this paper, and as their curious noses get closer, the butterflies will become startled and be held to the paper by only the whispers of love, they will take flight; then all of a sudden, the front room of our home will be swarming with butterflies of so many colors, like flying flowers from a botanist’s illustrated book.  I can see it now.

Once the flutters stop fluttering, our visitors will find their way into the main room, which is centered on a large dining room table with a menagerie of chairs encircling it and by a lovely kitchen. The table is so large that a coin-operated telescope is at one end.   Most visitors will be startled when pressing their eye into the eyepiece. They are able to see their long-lost loves smiling and dancing around the table.  At the other end of the longest table, there will be another coin-operated telescope, this one looking back at them.  Everyone will be startled, love, when they see their younger self looking back at them.

Now, let me describe the chair at the head of the table.  This chair will be made by peculiar craftsman that I have found living in a village in Algeria. it will be made from the light of the setting sun that set in Skikdah on a certain day when joy was especially prevalent.   We will need to invent special spectacles so that the ornate designs that I will have carved into the sun chair by the smiles of summer children playing in the sea, refusing to come home when they are called by their parents, can be appreciated without squinting.

The chair at the other end of the table will be, of course, as you know, made from the moonlight that cast shadows across our faces, the night we first met, that same moon that all the flying fish tried to coax closer to the sea with their aerial acrobatics and their daring feats of flying that made you say,

“ahhhhhhh.”

Now, to the chairs sitting on either side of the table, I will make of worn stone that I will borrow from country fireplaces; those stones that have been polished smooth by generations of stories about love, and adventure, those stones that warmed every imagination  till the last ember popped and closed its eyes, tired as the rest of the family. And then there will be the kitchen.  There will be a hearth and heart of our home, where the cabinets will be made of the same material as the front door, they being cousins, and of course, as you have always said, “What kitchen is worth its salt without laughter?”

I see you wrestling a hot wind back under a pot since our stove will work by winds, zealous Zephyrs from Greece, and Solicitous Siroccos from the Saharan sands and Leveches out of Libya, their mischievousness is not always appreciated when they are supposed to be warming the butter. You will smile and fling the little zephyrs under the pan.  You are the Queen of the home, and I will build you. While you cook for our myriad of guests, I will show them the rest of our home. 

I will show them the room that is just for old umbrellas and the room just for birdsong.  I will show them the library filled with our writing, with low voices singing love and stories, never heard before, and where angels will chase each other among the folios. I will show them the attic made of glass so that, in the end, all of life’s secrets will be revealed.   I will show them our bedroom, and they will be impressed by the soft and billowing bed I have made for us, from your night’s dreams and our love sighs.   And, of course, the headboard will also be made from the same material as the door that delights with its random laughter.

From our room to the spare bedroom, this room will be well-welcoming to anyone who wants to stay over, even with the small cloud sulking in the corner. I will tell our guests about the rules of the home, where the inappropriate use of thunder and lightning from a small cloud indoors is never allowed, especially thunder and lightning that is meant only to torment the cats.  Young clouds need an appropriate time out from time to time.

Oh, the home I will build for you and the room we will make for our child, ahhhh, this room cannot be described, my love, because there are no words in any language to describe this room.  I have looked in odd and diverse encyclopedias and corresponded with architects of mysterious buildings and dark women of letters, but to no avail.  Let it be as the Gypsy King said, “Let music not words be the way to show what the beauty of this room will be.” Alas, can you hear it, my love? Lastly, I will build our garden. Many will be impressed with the fountains and the peacocks whose hundreds of eyes of their feathers will tell our guests’ future and by the fireflies and hummingbirds that will chase each other around the yard.  The yard will be filled with the sound of small chimes, each flown around by dragonflies, and the tinkling caused by their constant play of near misses and proofs of daring.  And this will only be possible because of you, my love and patience for the hummingbirds, fireflies, and dragonflies wall; eventually, after much deliberation, they will always do as you request.

Many will be speechless and will not know what to say when they visit the home I will build for you, and fewer still will understand this is not just a home 

but my portrait of you.