The floors at work bother me.
Not in any sensory way – I love chocolate terrazzo. And they’re not damaged or slippery or haunted by the ghost of Elvis. It’s not like they sneak onto my property and leave burning bags of dog crap on my steps.
What bothers me is that they exist.
These floors were laid in 1955, when my mother was in her twenties and my father was in his thirties.
They were there when my parents got married.
They were there when my brother was born.
Also when my sister and I were born.
They were there when my grandmother died.
They were there when my father developed angina, and also when he had his bypass.
They were even there when his heart finally gave way and he died. And during the wake.
And when I got married.
And when my kids were born.
What bothers me about the floors is this. While my family went from my mother and father living separately as young single people, to a married couple with kids, to sick elderly people, to a widow, to an entirely new generation, those floors were always there. And they always looked virtually the same. And they never changed. Through all the birthday parties and detention sentences. Through all the new gardens and job changes. Through everything. There are spots on the sides of the stairs where I don’t think anyone has ever even tread. Those floors haven’t changed a damn bit and my father went from a young man to an elderly sick person to ashes. I don’t understand that. I can’t ever sit and look through a photo album with my father again. But I can walk on the same floor that he did once. And it will feel the same.
It makes sense to me that people age and die. Bodies, after all, are just flesh and blood. People change, relationships end, new ones start, politics and trends adjust. All that’s fine. But yet there are a lot of silent sentinels in this world, objects that sit idly by and watch the world, and they never change a damn bit. Just look at the beautiful paintings unearthed in Pompeii – they sat untouched for centuries while the people who painted them changed to volcanic ash fossils and the entire empire crumbled. The people who created them would not recognize 90% of the world we live in. But the paintings look the same.
There is an entire group (“once was home”) on Flickr devoted to documenting the trivial, the meaningless, the thoroughly unnoticed artifacts of everyday life that remain long, long after the people have gone. A spoon on a shelf. A calendar turned to the current month (January 1978). A pamphlet for medical care. Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter, all move by and these things remain, perched on a shelf waiting for their owner’s return like a dog left in the country by an overwhelmed family.
I would almost feel better if mine disappeared with me. It’s creepy.
I’m just saying. Those damn floors mock me.