Im sixty years old. In this odd, floating twilight of life, I no longer expect to find friends or relatives drifting through my house like so many ghosts with kettles and hats.
They say Im too haughty, those people I used to be tied toperhaps I am, perhaps Im not. But the truth floats up like mist: I really couldnt care less what others murmur about me in their kitchens or at the bus stop.
Truth is, the main reason I shut my red door to visitors is out of sheer laziness. The thought of running a household fills me with a foggy exhaustion. Its not merely the tidying, though the hoover roars too loud now; I always felt pressed to serve up some kind of tea and cake, too. These days, I neither have the pounds nor the will for it. Why shouldnt we meet at a tearoom in town, sip coffee among flowers painted on china? What obligation binds us to couches and armchairs, really?
Another reason: the heaviness people bring. Not every visitor comes to you with sunshine in their heart. Why should I invite others troubles over my threshold, let them shadow my furniture? After each gathering, I felt like Id waded through syrup and ended up more weary than before. I simply stopped wanting to sacrifice my calm for a parade of faces. Since locking up against all comers, my bad dreams and insomnia have evaporated like steam.
Besides, Im retired now, wafting about the house like a bored cat. I long to wander out, soak in new places, shake off my anxieties in the rain and bustle. Why nag everyone to pile into my living room? After theyve gone, Im left fussing over crumbs and replaying every word, asking myself: Did I host well? Did I fail?
Our town is riddled with curious nooks and sunny gardenswhats the sense in marking each birthday with a battleship of a cake in my small sitting room? I want to find joy out and about, not race round all day with the dustpan and mop like its some strange ancient ritual.
Now my home is my very own odd little world. There are no unnecessary souls lurking in the corners, no heavy coats to hang. Some might mutter that Im an inhospitable hermit, but thats simply a fable told by those who dont see how peaceful the silence can be.
Does my eccentric way of seeing things echo, even faintly, in your dreams?
