Faux-brick Linoleum
January 20th, 2010

Noon sunlight filtered through the grimy, rolled glass windows into the small farmhouse kitchen, the strong light diffused by the mold and dirt on the panes. It shone past the cracking white paint on the wood cabinets, over the cream colored laminate countertops, slowing its course as it graced the peeling wallpaper where the color from the yellow daffodils had begun to seep off the petals and onto the once-white background, and finally stopping against the cool linoleum floor of tiny, tiled, fake bricks.

Lena’s favorite place to lie was here, where the sunlight pooled at the base of the wall, her bare feet against the chilled, humming metal door of the harvest gold refrigerator. She would lie here for hours on the cold, manufactured bed with a blanket of natural warmth on top of her and think about her summer days.

The inside of the house was clean, the floors especially; Lena took pride in keeping the house tidy and free of dirt. The windows were dirty on the outside, and therefore, she thought, not her responsibility. She could leave those for her father to do after he finished in the fields for the day.

In the corner of the kitchen, pushed back when not in use, was a small table that her grandfather had built for himself and his wife to use when they lived in this house, but now Lena and her father used it now. It was a simple table, square with lathe-turned legs that tapered gently to a knobby foot against the floor. The chairs were low-backed, with straw-woven seats, and fitted together with dovetail joints. The three pieces were lovingly crafted and sturdy, a testament to the man who made them.

The kitchen was cramped, but made good use of its space, her grandfather did well in his planning before building the house. Two bedrooms and a bathroom made up the top floor, and the kitchen and living room made up the bottom floor. A small attic and cellar sandwiched the floors above and below respectively. Next to the towering refrigerator was a deep sink with a high faucet, and above that was an iron rack suspending beaten copper pots with sides tarnished by years of use. Across from that, at Lena’s head, was the oven, the color matching the appliance by her feet.

On the gas range sat the nine-cup, Pyrex® coffee pot her father still used, a relic from his father, half full with a robust Columbian roast, now cold from its half day of sitting out, but still as fragrant as when it was brewed.

Above the range, even above its hood, mounted in a stained embroidery hoop was a stitched sentiment her grandma had crafted in the days before she married. The blue and yellow script still vibrant against the lightly browned cotton of the piece’s aida cloth background: “Borta bra men hemma bäst” meaning “away is good but home is best;” a saying Lena agreed with all her heart. This was her home, and she loved it.