...the holes...

We rent.

We rent what, by some standards, would be considered a postage-stamp sized apartment.  It's the 'garage apartment' of our landlords' home...an afterthought of sorts...a subdivided use of what was extra space, walled off and renovated into living quarters.    

It is, by some standards, far too small for family life.

It is, by all standards, in constant need of t.l.c. after countless (preceeding occupant) years of neglect.

It is also, seemingly, forever in need of fixing.  Something of a d.i.y. renovator's daydream, I suppose.  I have done what I can.  I do what I can.  There's been sanding and scrubbing.  Tightening of screws and replacing of fixtures.  Refitting and refurbishment.  Caulking and re-caulking.  Painting and repainting.  Little fixes and big fixes.

And it remains.  Unchanged.  In steady decline.

Pieced together of spare parts and looking every bit the temporary shelter that it is.

It is...

At best...

Quirky.

Cantankerous, even.

Floors sloping in all directions.  Cabinets that won't be orderly no matter how often I re-organize.  Drawers that stick or jam.  Surfaces stained by age, bleach-resistant.  Walls that show their seams.

And holes.

Oh, the holes.

Round the frames and doors and windows.  Where the insulation has rotted away. In the roof and in the ceiling.  In the walls, before I filled them.  The cracks and holes of mis-measured and old and settling.  The holes of nature wearing away.  And, in some cases, the holes we've made throughout the years...from the ever-changing displays of elementary art projects and holiday decorations.

I've fixed them all.  Or, rather, I've tried.  I've bought the spackle and the drywall.  Applied it liberally, then sanded.  I've fixed so many.  Too many.  I've filled in the cracks and the crevasses.  I've color-corrected with woodpaint in hopes of blending.  I've covered up with photos and artwork; those shiny happy things that distract from the disorder they hide.

But there are more. Always more.

I have fixed the holes in the walls.  Countless hours of labor consumed by delicate work.

Fill...Sand...Paint.

I have fixed the ones that are in ready view...the ones at eye-level...the obvious ones.

But there are more.

There are cracks in the ceiling.  Stains, as well.

Holes in the roof that let in all manner of waste and weather and wildlife.

Those holes remain.

They continue...they grow.

(They are, most would agree, not my responsibility.  But they are my burden.)

I know they are there.

I know there is erosion in the very framework.

I have fixed what I can of the obvious gaps...fixed that which others would easily see.

But the structural damage remains.

(The kitchen ceiling)

The holes in the very construction remain.  Out of sight...sometimes even out of mind...but there, nonetheless.  Impactful, nonetheless.  Burdensome, nonetheless.  Slowly and steadily eating away at themselves until they chew right through the walls and ceilings in more obvious ways.  Sure to suddenly reveal themselves only once it is far too late for damage control.

The holes remain.

Where this person ripped off a piece.

Where that person tore out a chunk.

Where someone else left without shoring things up.

The holes remain.

In him.

In me.

In this quirky, cantankerous life made up of spare parts and temporary fixes.

~Leanna