Solitary Heaven

A miniature inspired by my mom’s aunt’s house

There is a plain-looking two-story house in a modest village. 

This house belongs to my mom’s aunt and her extended family. It’s the only house that has ever come close to resembling a household of relatives with all its traditional components—homemade cookies on Christmas, the “oh, you’ve grown so much!” exclamations, clattering of forks and knives and plates. Eggs on Easter. Simple birthday cakes. Burning candles, sweet caramel, bitter chocolate. This ceremonial combination of smells has left an imprint on my memory. 

When I was four or five, I disappeared from my parents’ sight, climbed to the second floor, and started exploring the rooms. Once my absence was noted, the whole party—parents and grandparents—started running all over, searching for me outside by the beehives, or with horses, or even in the well. Nobody suspected the second floor until one of my second cousins dashed up the stairs to pick up something and found me playing there.

The second floor is a special place. First, I think of the pink room, suffused with mystical energy. A portrait of my mom’s cousin hung on the wall, and untouched notebooks laid on a table with a lacy tablecloth. There are also two beds and a wooden case for books.

The next room is a blue one with vintage car posters, a display case for glass and porcelain plates, and identical beds. This room has a secret: white doors leading to a storage room. I have always been afraid of it, being almost certain that ghosts lived there. The only time that I gathered all my courage to take a peek, I found only bags of potatoes.

Lastly, there’s the main bedroom, covered in a peculiar wallpaper (a combination of blue and red, with tiny flower patterns), its aura made of objects of curiosity (decorative lamps, silky cushions, baroque curtains). My description might be somewhat of an exaggeration, but it’s exactly in these terms that I remember this space. As a child, I hadn’t seen anything like it before. 

However, the most magical thing there is the view. One can see nothing but green fields stretching out on the horizon. Singing, swinging treetops far away. The vastness of space fills up the chest and the mind. It’s the only visual representation of infinity I have. 

When I was little, I imagined myself as a young lady in Provençal surroundings, engaged in a pleasant reverie. Countless times, I imagined myself walking through those fields. Those fields were my fields, this room was my room. Sitting on a red velvet chair and bathing in a golden light, I would pick up an old phone with a rotary dial—as if I’d just received an unexpected call—and produce imagined replies. I whispered English words that I had just learned. I pronounced French words that didn’t exist. I talked about things I had never experienced, but I hoped I would—preferably soon. In my imagination, I was a writer with her most beautiful gown, sitting idly on a chair, caressing the wooden table with her fingers. Fingers adorned with rings, black or blue nail polish, silvery eyes, and smudged lips. 

The last time I was in this house, I immediately went to this room. I wanted to see those fields again. I picked up the receiver—purely for fun—and remembered those conversations with imaginary people. I looked in the mirror and saw that phantom lady I imagined I would physically grow into, minus the gown. (I had completely forgotten about this fantasy—numerous rings, blue nail polish, silver eyeshadow, smudged lipstick, certain expressions—until I saw it accomplished on my face and body with perplexing accuracy.)   

I forgot to mention there’s a window in the hall, right by the stairs, overlooking a silent road and a backyard. A tall, plump tree is clouding the view. A grown-up me remembers a little me sitting under the leafy roof of this giant, plotting the proceedings for my potential book.

Plot: A fourteen-year-old girl lives in a forest house with her grandmother. She joins a new school and meets a shy boy. They become friends and experience all kinds of adventures. I was utterly transfixed by the marvelous forest house my heroine would inhabit, a forest with a lonely house and a small pond. I knew I had to give her a room similar to the one I have here. 

This house has been full of people and noise for so many years, and for me, it is still a solitary heaven.

Originally written in 2019, revised in 2023