First Time at the House

The first time I walked up the stoop in front of this house, a big yellow lab was frantically scratching the paint off of the inside of the door. A beautiful brunette child with a familiar smile opened the front door. The dog was jumping, desperate to get to us. The little girl, my husband's youngest sister, was 12 years old at the time. Her unabashed adoration for her big brother was a refreshing change from the drama and complications of my life at Harvard. 


We walked inside and the kisses started. Kisses, kisses, kisses and hugs. And noise. Voices. Everyone seemed to be talking at once, smiling, chatting, and laughing. Warm tantalizing aromas wafted from the kitchen at the back of the house. There was soccer on the TV, the commentators spewing out words like a professional auctioneer. 


We turned to the couch and my husband gingerly presented me to his mother's aged parents. After taking in the profound frailty of Nonno and then the quick spunk of Nonna I was escorted along again. I sat down at the table in the kitchen for the very first time. 


My husband's three younger siblings, a few teammates including some cousins, and their father were all wearing muddy soccer clothes, shinguards and soccer socks, having just arrived from their various soccer practices.


The little sister that greeted us at the front door, started mashing strawberries into her glass of orange juice, staring at me, talking straight at me while everyone else was talking in alternate trajectories. She was inviting me to sleep in her room. 


I was given a water in a cute little glass that was shaped like a boot. I raised the glass to my lips and a bubble from the toe of the boot slipped loose, splashing water up into my nose and eyes. Everyone burst out laughing. 


His little sister continued talking to me for the rest of the night. Terrified of hurting her feelings, I tried and tried and tried to stay awake until she was done talking but I did eventually pass out.