Kalliope 2015 | Page 68

Renovation by Anitha Ahmed I come home in the evening to wooden floors in the living room, in the kitchen, to wooden stairs. Gone are the chai-stained carpets, gone those invisible layers of dust and hair gathering in corners of carpet no vacuum Would reach. “Wood is easy to clean,” my father says. But the wood is hard and cold against our heads during the night prayer. The wood carries voices to my bedroom— sharp syllables and slammed cupboards, I hear every word un-insulated. I stare at a book, the way I did at ten in the backseat when my mother cried over the guardrail, And my father glared through the windshield into the wooded mountains ahead. Floor mats rubbed layers of tension on my soles, and we sat the ride home in silence. In the morning, my father sweeps dust from the wood, sprays over it a layer of lacquer. My mother opens the blinds. “Look how the wood shines in the sunlight,” she says, “Look how clean.” My parents smile at each other again. 68