did you see?

Listening to: The Promise of a Lifetime 

Lyric love: "I thought if I could touch this place, or feel it, this brokenness inside me might start healing. Out here it's like I'm someone else, and I thought that maybe I could find myself. If I could just walk around, I swear I'll leave. I won't take nothing but a memory from the house that built me." -The House That Built Me by Miranda Lambert

I know you bought my old house, but you really know nothing about it.

Did you see the lines on the doorway, where Mama marked how tall I grew? Did you see the red streaks of crayon in that back bedroom? I did that when I was five.

"Papa, come and spend time with me?"

I know I don't live there anymore, but I wish I could walk through that house once more; just to see the memories that live in the walls, and maybe find the ones I've forgotten. Did you see the hallway that led to another bedroom? On a cloudy day in May, my very exhausted father walked in, dropped a backpack, and laid on the bed with a newborn Suzanne sleeping on his chest. That was seventeen years ago. Fourteen years ago, at two in the morning when a thunderstorm raged in the skies, I ran to sleep in the arms of my mother.

"Mama, may I snuggle with you?"

Did you paint that back bedroom that was mine? Did you finish peeling away that paisley wallpaper? I spent thirteen years pulling tiny strips off my walls, though I never thought it would hurt to see it all gone. Did you see that window, the one with the orange tree in front of it? I found a picture from back when I was eighteen months old. I was leaning on that window sill, looking at my eight year old cousin. She was standing outside, smiling and talking to me; and I put my little hand on the cool glass, laughing and trying to touch her face.

Did you go to the backyard? My puppy is buried under the pear tree. Did you see the tallest tree? Papa built me a swing there. It's gone now, but I wonder if the echos ever really fade away. The echos of my cousin's laughter, whispering on the breeze. If you would climb the tree, you would see that the tree is my favorite.

"J.S.R."

And five years ago, I stood outside that house at ten o'clock at night: the day I could no longer call my house mine. I looked through a window and saw the moonlight streaming through the lace curtains. The empty rooms looked so lonely, and I looked at the doorway that led to the back bedrooms. I looked at the dining room, and remembered the video of my first birthday.


"Happy first birthday, sweet girl."

I looked in the kitchen where Papa held me ten years ago, after I scraped my knee. He let me cry and suggested we go fishing. I looked at the living room, so empty and cold. That's the house where I got saved. Remember when there was classical music softly playing, and everything was familiar? Remember?


"Hi, baby. Are you feeling any better? We're going to the doctor."

Did you see the front porch? I stood there and watched the wind lower a pine tree to the ground. That was the day I sat on my bed and stared out the window, watching a hurricane rage. Did you see the window by the front door? That was the window I stood by when I was ten, watching snow slip from the sky. That was the first time I had ever seen snow.

I could go on forever, and then some. I'd give so much to see that house again, and see the room where I cried until I slept and laughed until I cried. I know if I showed up now, you'd have no idea who I was. But it's okay if there's a piece of paper that says the house isn't mine anymore. That's the house I lived in, and that's the house that built me.

In His love and light,

Suzanne