The Old Victorian

Stepping over the threshold of my new home, I'm once again met with a sense of awe. Even the butterflies in my stomach had stilled, taking in the sight with me.

The old Victorian home had recently been restored to its former glory, all three floors of it. The previous owners had completely stripped the ugly brown paint job of the outside of the home, then they painted the home in its original vibrant forest green. They had repaired the battered roofs and windows and they even cleaned and re-finished the shutters and trimmings of the house.

The roof had been completely re-shingled, replacing the old and cracked shingles with fresh, rich black ones. They all were arranged with care and preciseness upon each roof of the home. Each point of the roof is still adorned with the original lightning rods, giving the faint impression of twisted black veins pointing an accusatory finger to the heavens.

Taking a deep breath, I drink in the faint smell of wood polish and paint. Looking up, I smile as I watch rainbows dance across the walls as the mid-afternoon sunlight hits the small crystal chandelier.

Looking down, I feel slightly guilty for walking across the polished floor, its rich brown surface reflecting y face as I look down at it.

Shifting the box I hold in my arms, I continue my journey into the home, heading toward the stairs. The long, ornate banister is as polished as the floor and I long to run my hand over its shiny surface. Sighing, I ascend the stairs, counting each one as I go. Every step I take, I feel an intricately designed runner rug mush slightly under my feet. When I get to the top, I frown.

Nineteen.

Nineteen steps, an odd and slightly aggravating number that leaves an uncomfortable feeling in my chest. I feel my OCD awakening, and I struggle to keep it down. Nineteen isn't such a bad number, I try to tell myself, It's a perfectly fine number. Great for getting to twenty, right?

Exhaling slowly out of my nose, I look around. Immediately off the stairs, I am met with a long hallway with a beautiful grand window letting in the afternoon sun. To my left is the arched doorway to the library, the arch resting atop two pillars painted with ivy.

Taking a peek into the room, I notice the shelves are bare, but not a speck of dust upon them. A fireplace framed by neat grey stones sits against the right wall, its gaping mouth bare and dark. Beside it is a small writing desk with an equally dainty leather chair tucked squarely into the desk. A chaise sits in the middle of the room, its grey fabric sits clean but slightly worn. The feet of the sofa are carved into the feet of lions, the claws setting out of the wood.

The walls are covered in a calm blue wallpaper, designs of bundles of roses bordered in gold set atop it. Candle holders hang off the walls, each one fresh and never lit. I grin, knowing this room will quickly become the most used room in the home. I'm filled with excitement when I realize I could very easily fill these shelves with my large collection of books.

Backing out of the room, I turn, debating on which floor I want my bedroom to be on. I could live up in the attic room, but I'm quickly deterred after I figure that the attic room will become the hottest in the house, given that heat goes to the higher rooms.

Turning from the next staircase, I walk down the hallway. At this point, I'm met with another choice: Which room do I want?

During the virtual tour, I had been shown the three rooms here on the second floor, two in the attic. The virtual tour had shown that the first room of the attic is plain, fitted for a nursery. The second is painted with animals and trees, with multiple beds set against the walls. Not wanting to disturb the beauty of the two children's rooms in the attic, I settle for the second floor.

The first room that is immediately off the stairs is the blue room, decorated in blue wallpaper and a light blond rug accented in red. The drapes are white, as is the trimming in the room.

The second from the stairs is the green room, its wallpaper an exact match to the color of the house. Though it's bare of carpet, it does have a large rug that was originally in the downstairs parlor. Supposedly, the builder and original owner of the home had ventured to Afghanistan and bought the rug from a rather poor little old woman. They had seen the rug she was working on and had given her fifty golden coins for it, leaving her happy and with a little extra money.

The last room, the one right next to the beautiful window is the red room. Its walls are colored a very robust auburn and set with windows that show the side yard and the beautiful autumn trees. The room was given another of the original rugs, but this one, unfortunately, didn't have a backstory.

Setting the box down, I open the door to the red room. Picking back up the box, I walk into the room and gasp. The walls look like a sun dance in heaven. Gold glimmers in places, silver in others. The windows stand floor to ceiling, and all three are draped in gold.

I place my box onto the floor and then step out of the room, taking one last look at the sunset that is my walls. Closing the door, I sigh, content with myself because every choice I had ever made had led me to this day, to this bedroom.

Turning from the door, I look down the hall. The runner ends right under the windowsill seat and spans down the stairs, leaving me nervous about having to vacuum a lot. The walls are half wooden, half wallpapered. The wallpaper, though faded, is a quiet, solid grey. Portraits hang along the wall across from the bedroom, each one framed in intricately carved wooden frames. The first depicts a woman, and I find myself breathless at her beauty.

She's dressed in white, a small plume of white lace sitting atop the chest of her bodice. Her face looks like that of an angel, as she gazes into the camera with a face of kindness. Her facial features are soft and round, her eyes large and bright. Her lips sit plump and round, the edges tilted slightly upwards. Her hair sits piled atop her head in curls and waves, not a single strand out of place. A large white rose is set into her curls, and though such a simple accessory, it makes her look all the more beautiful. When I look at her eyes, I feel warmth and hope. In some way, I feel like I might know her.

The photo beside her is the exact opposite. A photograph taken of an older man hangs on the wall, his eyes sunken and glassy. His hair, though neatly parted and combed, has multiple chunks of hair missing. His mouth is slightly agape, showing a few teeth. His cheekbones stand out from the shadows on his face, and his face appears to be a skull with a thin layer of skin set upon it. Creases on his forehead and mouth are twisted up in pain. The picture sends waves of melancholy crashing over me, and I quickly recall reading about photographs.

This particular photograph was a Victorian death portrait, taken of the man that had built the home. He had lived with his wife and daughter until his wife passed away from tuberculosis, then it was just him and his daughter. His daughter was married a few years later, leaving the poor man alone in his small home. A year after the daughter had married, her husband had also succumbed to the same illness that had claimed her mother, leaving her with an infant son. She decided to move back with her father, and together they had raised the child. When he was grown, the father gifted his grandson with the home, and he went off to build a new one. Together, along with family and friends, they built the home. Once it was completed, father and daughter lived together, there for each other when the hard times came knocking. They lived quietly for the next twenty years, helping local churches and assisting with babysitting the local children so the mothers could take a break.

After thirty years, the father had passed from a painful battle with tuberculosis and the daughter scraped enough money together to get a photo of him to add to the very little collection of family photos.

I look again at the photo of the man and realize there is nothing scary about it other than what an illness can do to a person. Any idea of removing the photo I might have had has completely evaporated, and I give a small prayer under my breath for the kind-looking old man.

As I walk slowly down the hall, I look at the other photos. One is of the father and his daughter, another is him standing behind his seated wife, holding a little baby dressed in a cute white dress. The next one is the daughter and a handsome young man, presumably her husband. My heart swells as I step back and look at all the photos once more. Not only have I found myself home with such a sweet story, but I also found myself a home with proof that even in death people are loved.

I head back down the stairs and turn into the parlor, its air smelling faintly of flowers and fire. Walking over to the fireplace, I run my hands over the rough stone as I look up at the blank television. I chuckle at how odd something so modern looks in this home.

Columns set into the walls stand floor to ceiling, their bodies smooth, their bases and tops detailed in swirls of ivy. Bending over, I open one of my many beaten cardboard boxes. Reaching in, I pull out my long knitted quilt, running the rough material over my fingertips. Slowly I walk over to the sofa and sit, still looking over the quilt as memories and emotions flood over me.

Memories of Grandma's home when I was a child, the many stories she would tell me whilst I sat on her lap, blithe. On summer evenings we would go out and catch fireflies, the night air sticky and warm, the smell of honeysuckle and grass filling my nose. The feeling of Grandma's kisses pecking my cheeks and foreheads, her smell making me feel warm.

I wrap myself in the blanket, and as I do, I feel like she's there, giving me a hug and telling me how proud she is that I had bought such a beautiful home for myself, had moved up the ladder, and made her dreams for me obtainable.

I shift through the box at my feet and pull out the photograph of her, then set it next to me on the sofa.

"We did it, grandma," I whisper, my heart swelling, "I did it."