househunting cont'd

the real live kitchen of the fancy house (the people still live there)

The househunting never went anywhere. There isn’t much on the market, and it didn’t take long to see all there is to see. I’ve already mentioned two that were finally the only two houses realistically considered. I still think about the possibilities of the old one: a spare room for my parents, sunlit office, Olympic-size playroom for the buka, arch, mudroom, doors. Doors are exactly what the other house, the fancy one on the fourth floor, lacks. And what the flat I’m in now lacks, among other things. Not that I’m crazy about doors, but something’s got to be done, to keep the cat on one side of the house and the buka on the other.

The real estate agents are a joke. They show up late, can’t find the key, open the door to the filthy, dusty, uncleaned remains of somebody’s life left behind, shadow you, but don’t offer a word. That’s if they bother to show up at all. The houses stink, are full of mess, and as hard as you try to imagine the possibilities (one even had a garden, full of citrus trees and artichokes), all you are left with is a whining voice in your head that says, “I don’t want to live in this stinky house!”

Properties sit empty. Realtors never call again. Nobody will buy, nobody can buy, unless the owner really decides he wants to sell (I’m convinced this is the real problem), in which case he or she should make a minimal effort at least.

So now I try to imagine the possibilities of not moving, of staying in my apartment -- a crib for the buka or a fold-out bed for my mom? There’s no room for both. Gifts are being amassed -- there’s no room for them either. But one thing the buka has taught me is that you can always make room if you have to. My belly gets bigger; I buy new clothes. To make room for the new clothes, I throw away the old ones. Maybe it’s time.