The footprint on the sidewalk used to bother me.
It’s barely in the shape of a foot — more like a series of wrinkles within a soft oval — and the average person wouldn’t even notice its existence. But it always catches my eye, whenever I’m outside for a jog, taking out the trash, or continuing my ongoing war on weeds.
The footprint is just off to the side of our driveway. My wife created it when she unknowingly stepped into what was still barely wet cement after checking on the progress of our home under construction. I assumed somebody would fix the blemish, but no one ever did.
Since then, we’ve watched the house slowly develop from an empty semi-corner lot by a wash to a wood frame and finally, a full Vegas-worthy home slathered in stucco. There’s something special about being the first people to call a house a home. It’s unmistakably ours with custom features determined by a limited budget and hard decisions on what to save for later. (Our kitchen cabinets went at least a year without handles.)
We’ve welcomed five doggies into the home and felt the heartbreak of saying goodbye to two. We’ve sipped wine by our backyard firepit and watched our Strip view (the “X factor” of choosing our lot) disappear behind the inevitable construction associated with Vegas growth.
Eventually, a new house breaks in, but it’s always a work in progress. The dishwasher needs to be replaced, a guest room still requires a deep clean after becoming a glorified storage closet, and my wife continues to push for curtains while I insist our windows have a more “modern” look. The battle continues.
At this point, the one thing I’d never change is the footprint on the sidewalk. My wife and I say we could live in this house forever, but eventually, somebody else will call it home. And when they do, I hope they feel the happiness, love, and comfort that truly built it. They can rip out the flooring, replace the cabinets, and do whatever they like to make the property “theirs,” but the footprint outside will always remain. Our official stamp of approval. The tattoo you can’t wash away.
My wife and I celebrate seven years of marriage on Monday, which happens to fall on Memorial Day. We’ll be thinking of those who sacrificed for our country, but also taking some time for ourselves to have a quiet dinner and hang out with the doggies in the house that we call home.
Happy anniversary, Mary. The champagne is on ice 🥂
