Squeaky Floorboard
Worth it.
There is a squeaky patch of floorboard directly in front of a non-functioning fireplace in my studio apartment. Perhaps, before the chimney was boarded up, the floor was worn down by years of tenants sitting in front of an actual fire. Perhaps others placed a mirror above it as I have, shifting their weight in that exact spot as they’d stare at their reflections. Perhaps it’s just a random bubble of moisture.
I noticed it right away in those first two weeks without furniture - sleeping on an air mattress, eating solo dinners on a yoga mat, watching When Harry Met Sally on my MacBook Air as 2020 turned to 2021. The floor and I wailed in unison while I swayed to “She Used To Be Mine” by Sarah Bareilles - optimistic for the possibilities I could welcome here, mourning the woman who almost gave up on herself completely.
In February, I welcomed my first guest - a dear friend whose life also squeaked for her attention in the early days of the pandemic. She, too, heeded the call and was in the process of her own painful ending. We drank to our new beginnings with cheap red wine, amused by the floor’s comment each time I stood up to add to our half-full glasses.
It creaked every time I’d walk to the kitchen, peeped on occasion while moving through chaturanga, and came to life when I’d dance - processing elation, anxiety, and anguish on those 50 square feet. It moaned as I slow-danced to “La Vie En Rose” with someone who taught me to see myself as the sun shining on a waterfall. It sighed as my mother held me in that same spot, experiencing the particular grief of choosing myself once again.
This weekend, my 9-year-old niece squealed with that floor as we jumped along to Taylor Swift. Last weekend, my girlfriend and I opted to lie on it, seemingly levitating in love. The floor remained silent as we reflected on our individual journeys, agreeing that we wouldn’t have been ready for each other without the wear and tear of our separate lives.
The hardwood floor of my studio apartment bent and adapted over the course of its 100-some-odd years. I did the same for the past two and a half. And every time I step on that squeaky little patch, it sings a chorus of how far I’ve come. That it’s all been worth it.