“No, I love it. Thanks so much, it’s just what I wanted.”

Ending #1: Next stop – the Goodwill three towns over.

Ending #2: I’ll keep this out for at least a month, then shove it in the attic so technically, when asked, I can say, “Of course I still have your present.”

Ending #3: I’ll act like it’s as valuable and delicate as a Ming vase, which is why I’ll find a safe place to keep it so it can’t be broken, i.e. the back of my lower left kitchen cabinet.

Ending #4: I need to strategically position this close enough to the edge of the front entry table so it will inevitably get knocked off and shattered into a thousand pieces the next time my youngest helps bring in the groceries.

Ending #5: It’ll be stored in the hall closet for easy retrieval so it can be prominently displayed at a moment’s notice anytime you text to say you’re coming over for a visit.

Ending #6: “Oh, my sister borrowed it for her (insert whatever holiday recently passed) party and she hasn’t returned it yet.”

Ending #7: If “beauty is in the eye of the beholder,” then one of us needs to make an appointment with an ophthalmologist.

Over the 269 years since the home was built, it has undergone a number of “improvements” made by the previous owners. The roof went from wood shingles to slate to asphalt shingles to metal and back to asphalt shingles. Additions, including bathrooms and a laundry room, expanded the square footage. Appliances were installed, then replaced with more energy-efficient versions.

The plumbing, electric, insulation, doors and windows were constantly upgraded so the house met whatever the current (and later obsolete) code was at the time. Renovations were done in the name of comfort. The individuals paying the mortgage felt obligated to add personalized touches which, over the decades, slowly masked the original character of the house.

The final iteration ended with the home subdivided into a studio apartment occupying the upstairs and an efficiency in the basement. The main floor was now a common area shared by both tenants. There are rumblings that once the leases are up, the structure will be converted back into a single-family dwelling in an attempt to return it to its former glory and then listed as an Airbnb.

The charm the dwelling showcased when Ray Hewitt first built it for his growing family has dissipated as only a few of the original components are still intact. Undoubtedly, if Ray, his first wife and kids could see the home now, they wouldn’t recognize it.

So, I find myself, with the help of my brother, lugging a king-sized mattress up a flight of narrow steps while she follows with a box of linens. It’s moving day with my girlfriend. As we sweat and struggle with the bedding, I wonder if the Stearns and Foster will bend enough to make the turn to the left when we reach the top of the stairs. Her old apartment had wider halls and staircases. I rented on a first floor and didn’t have to worry about such logistics.

After almost a year, she decided we should “take our relationship to the next level” and live together. So far, it’s been a good union. We have a fair amount in common and for the most part can agree to disagree on the topics which cause friction. I guess we’ve both changed, matured if you will. Maybe me more than her but that’s because girls adapt and grow up quicker than guys.

Once all the labeled totes were staged in their designated rooms and my brother left, the process of unboxing began. I had sold my duplicates of any item from when we combined our property. This lightened the load and reduced clutter. As the kitchen was being organized, I found myself feeling nostalgic for my blender though. Hers is fancier but I was comfortable with mine. I use to make margaritas with it during college and transitioned it into whipping up smoothies before heading off to work. I’m sure once I get accustomed to it, hers will be more than adequate.

I was getting ready to tackle the bedroom projects when I noticed a half-door that had been painted shut in the far corner of the room. Taking a break from my primary goal, I decide to see if I could breach the coats of latex, or more likely lead, keeping the door affixed in place. Excitement builds as I chip away at the filled-in gap around the frame with the flathead screwdriver in my hand that I intended to use for tightening the bed frame bolts.

I methodically carve, removing each paint layer as the corresponding flecks fall onto the carpet below. Alternating between scoring around the perimeter and tugging on the low-profile handle, I feel the door flex. This progress gives me a renewed outlook on my decision to move. It rekindles feelings that the sacrifices I, we’ve, made will recoup great rewards. Much like life, the only way to find out what’s behind any door is to put forth the energy to open it.

There has got to be long forgotten treasures concealed by this hinged, wooden panel. Items once carefully sequestered then forgotten then overlooked and now rediscovered. Although the door was old, whatever’s behind it would be new to me. The anticipation reaches a fever pitch.

My girlfriend enters the room and notices me struggling with my side project. She approaches and asks, “What are you working on there? Do you need any help with the bed frame?”

“Nope, I’m good. Just trying to get this door open to see what’s in there,” I reply without breaking my cutting/pulling sequence. One last solid yank and the door releases, the edges still holding onto jagged layers of paint.

When our eyes adjust, we find ourselves staring at what appears to be an abandoned dumbwaiter shaft. A piece of plywood served as the floor while another was installed for a shelf. Both are covered with an accumulation of dust, cobwebs and pieces of plaster. The mummified remains of what appears to be either a large rat or a small squirrel is located towards the back.

“When you clean this out,” my girlfriend interjects, “it’ll make a great place to keep my photo albums and childhood knickknacks. Let me know when you get that done and I’ll bring you the box of that stuff,” she concludes as leaving.

This once serviceable feature wasn’t part of the original home. It was added after it’s invention in the mid-1800’s. But then someone decided this convenience was obsolete and needed to be transformed into storage. And when that lost its purpose, someone else decided a wall was a better option and just sealed the opening.

Disappointment settles on my heart faster than the dust coughed up from the void settles onto the paint chips covering the floor. The musty smell that had been displaced by the fresh air from the room now clings to my clothes, as if it is trying to catch a ride to somewhere else.

I thought for sure I’d stumble onto some treasure from times past. I had optimism I’d be a changed person when I got whatever valuables should have been hidden in there. I’d get a fresh outlook on this new chapter in my life. But there was nothing.

With a defeated sigh, I toss the screwdriver towards the still unassembled metal frame in the center of the room. I replay the idea over and over in my mind – “I thought for sure I’d stumble onto some treasure... I had optimism.” But that didn’t happen. The only revelation was that of nothing. And this nothingness is giving me a hug, not a comforting one, more of a welcoming embrace. Like, “Welcome to the club. Welcome to your new normal.”

Now I have a connection to the house. More than I thought a renter could have. Or wanted to have. Because, like the house I’m contractually obligated to call home for the next twelve months, all the changes made in the name of improvement were actually changes that caused it to lose its identity.

We are the champions when we take our rightful place on the podium. When we earn trophies with engraved accomplishments on the affixed brass plates. When we hoist the banners high for all to see. When we plant our flags after reaching the summit of our dreams.

But we are also the champions when we decide to get in the game. When we fight the good fight without assurance. We are the champions when we recognize our mistakes or confront our fears. When we show up although we’re not ready. We are the champions when we rise from our knees, dust ourselves off and hold our heads high even as tears stream down our cheeks.

We are the champions when we endure the bad times knowing every tomorrow offers new opportunities. When we rekindle the confidence that was snuffed out, the confidence that reminds us we can persevere. We are the champions when we prove others wrong by not staying in bed.

We are the champions because we may have been beaten but we were never defeated. We find the strength to take a step forward despite being knocked backwards. This self-generated momentum is what propels us to a victory others thought we’d never attain.

Champions replace doubt with action.

“What you think, you become,” is sage advice

- that settles in your ear

- that lays dormant in your mind

- that holds on to its relevance

- that patiently waits to be followed

Because until that day arrives

- when you conscientiously decide it’s time

- when you take the necessary actions

- when you begin an uncharted journey

- when you put forth disruptive efforts

You’re really not thinking of becoming something,

you’re just daydreaming of becoming something.

“Confidently believe in yourself”

can hurt others so

remaining silent to fit in

seems like a better option because

speaking up for what’s right

will bring unwanted attention

from those you’re standing among

hoping for validation or approval

while you’re at your weakest

The memory of you emerges from the night around me,

which means I shall never again be able to sleep.

Your presence when I slumber foretells anguish and heartache.

Being at my most vulnerable is your opening to creep.

I’ll drown myself in a sea of coffee prior to bedtime

so you’ll never get the opportunity to pounce like a cougar.

It’s the best I can do for now to keep you at bay.

I wish you had never entered my life, Freddy Krueger.

The truth about darkness is it dissipates once exposed to light. Which means, when you remove the lid on a box of darkness, the darkness is banished. This immediately eases your burden. So, the gift is not what’s filling the box. The gift is the opportunity to lift the top, proving you can let in light.

Finding the courage to neutralize any darkness you’re holding onto is empowering, not only for you but to everybody who sees you take control and is inspired to expose their own personal, concealed darkness.

You may never know why a loved one gave you a box of darkness. It may have been by accident. It may have been intentional. And you may not even realize the box you’re in possession of contains darkness. But discovering you can rid yourself of this negativity reveals an important ability you will use throughout your life.

I hear the opening notes of your singsong voice,

“Babe, I’m home,” upon walking through the door.

I anticipate the loving embrace we’ll share

after your shoes have been kicked off onto the floor.

A comforting feeling from just your presence

washes over me whenever you appear.

Like a chorus of love for my heart,

reaching a crescendo when I hold you near.

Now alone in silence, lost in reverie,

because there is no other choice.

I sit quietly, aching for just one more chance

to hear the opening notes of your singsong voice.

Adrift in a sea of longing,

rudderless and without direction.

Trying to stay afloat

amidst the relentless winds and currents

whipping the crests into a frenzy.

At the mercy of the nautical tempest,

in a fruitless battle to maintain control,

I’m losing sight of the sheltered harbor

that was my refuge from this upheaval

brought on by the forced solitude

when you left me.

It’s the end of the line, so just add the final punctuation and be confident of what’s on my screen. Take a step away from the computer, go stretch or walk to clear my mind. Then come back for one final edit to objectively read the sentences previously scrutinized so many times that they turned into a muddy puddle of ideas.

When I reach the definitive end of the line, when I have checked for grammatical errors and cohesion, I won’t overthink what I’ve composed. I won’t feel the need to keep writing because doing so risks repeating myself or insulting the reader. If clarification is indeed required, I’ll try using less words because more is rarely the solution. Revising what is already there, making it succinct, is a better option.

Can I say, with conviction, that the ideas I put down comprise a lucid story which is worth someone’s time to read? If “Yes,” than there’s nothing more to add beyond the end of this line.