We agree that someday, we will have a house, and that this house will have: a library, bursting to the seams with books I’ve amassed during the years my feet took me straight to secondhand bookstores; floor-to-ceiling glass windows, because you said natural light trickling into the library would one day make a great background for a portrait (mine, yours or ours); a garden, where tomatoes, basil, rosemary, mint (for my mojitos which I will drink while looking at you pick through the leaves of your beloved plants) and other fragrant herbs would grow.
We agree that Sunday mornings will be spent in the garden, with you reading a newspaper in Chinese, just so you can tease me with your fluency while reminding me of my failure to pass any of my Spanish subjects back in the university. You, with your tea and me with my coffee because I’ve convinced you that I cannot go through an entire day without caffeine. And nicotine - an ashtray beside my coffee cup, a cigarette poised on the edge, halfway gone.
We agree that we will have all the time in the world to read all the books we want. And really mean it this time. “Remember,” you say to me, “this book you bought for me about New York? I figured it was a parting gift of some sort because you knew of my plans to leave for the city and continue my studies. I didn’t read the book and didn’t leave so I can finally read it with you, here, in our house.”
We agree that two kids, Dylan and one still unnamed, will be allowed to draw all over the walls, which you will lovingly paint over every six months because even children need a clean slate sometimes.
We agree that we will never forget, no matter how old we become in our house, so we can always go back to the day where we knew. It was one of the hottest summers of our lives. In a field full of acacia trees, a lonely goalpost stood untouched. And under the shade of the biggest tree, you asked me to take a photo of you walking away.
Somewhere, in our house, the photo hangs, black-and-white, always free of dust.
“So long as you write what you wish to write, that is all that matters; and whether it matters for ages or only for hours, nobody can say.”
― Virginia Woolf, A Room of One’s Own
Coucher de soleil, près du Croisic (n.d.). Ferdinand du Puigaudeau 1864-1930. Oil on canvas
hand embroideries by michelle kingdom
(via dark silence in suburbia)
Maggie Cheung’s stunning wardrobe in In the Mood for Love
Xiao Wen Ju, Asia Chow, Jacob K, Liu Wen, March 2012, Millinery, Tim Walker, W Magazine .