It is inappropriate what I feel for the counter top.

Um. Yeah. There may be questionable substances in the bathroom. The bathroom that I’ve spent a lot of hours in painting. Alone. With the door closed. Just maybe. I DO NOT NEED HELP IN THE CARCINOGENIC DEPARTMENT, GOD. Perhaps now the lung cancer can get to me before the breast cancer does.

It’s Friday. Obviously this means that I am a.) exhausted, b.) paint-splattered, c.) ready to kill someone or in tears and you are a.) getting sick of this and b.) going to hear about it anyways.
But ha! I’m not crying this time! So, there. It was a good day. The dining room is finished and white, we picked out flooring and have it strategically set to be installed around various surgical issues (because that adds a whole new level of fun to the whole endeavour), and the counter and sink have been installed.

Oh, the counter top. The counter top is beautiful. I love it. It makes my love for the cabinet doors (there are pictures on Facebook) seem like a passing fancy. But I think the thing that I love most about the counter top is that putting it in didn’t change anything. Since August, we’ve been systematically erasing my grandparents’ imprint on their house. This is incredibly difficult, and the kitchen is the first room that’s kind of close to being done, and I was thrilled to realize today that when I stood in there I felt the same as I always have. I mean, yes, the color is better and the light fixtures are pretty and modern, and we all know how I feel about the Corian, but everything still feels the same.

Nothing will ever change the memories I have of spending countless days there growing up. Nothing will makes me forget that this was the kitchen where there was a “I love my grandma and grandpa” on the fridge that “I” gave them at my first Halloween (I was a pumpkin. It was damn cute.) I can still remember sitting there the morning my grandmother died. I remember being really squished because there wasn’t a whole lot of room for all ten of us plus I think a priest, I don’t know. In May I made Grandpa broth and jello in that kitchen after a doctor’s appointment because he was still high from something they had given him. (I didn’t make the Jello correctly. Shocking, I know.) In July, I stood there at the fridge and helped him clean it out, because we figured some stuff was going to spoil. But I told him to leave most of it, because he would be back within a week or two. He never got back. On July 24th Steven and I went down around ten o’clock to bring back the radio from the kitchen table- it was tuned to a specific station, and God knows that we could not retune the radio that was already at Mickey’s, we needed this one. And on July 25th I stood in there and cried harder than I had all day.

Not all of those memories are good; in fact, most of them are damn depressing. But they’re a huge part of my life, and I am so thankful that they haven’t been erased.

I wouldn’t change it for the world.

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