When we moved into our home six years ago, the oak floorboards in the kitchen and family room needed refinishing after accumulating the scars and scratches of two decades of family life. The wood floor was a testament to all the life that took place under this roof: the deep grooves from shifting furniture, the thick scratches from scrambling puppy paws, and the usual goudges and superficial marks made by children throwing toys and scribbling on thin sheets of paper set directly on the floorboards.
As we walked through the downstairs, a map of the previous owner’s life unfolded like an atlas across our oak floors. It was sweet, endearing even, but it wasn’t our map. It wasn’t our dog or children or furniture leaving behind marks and memories.
Before we moved in, floor repairmen arrived with industrial sanders and buffed away all of the marks left behind. The memories dissipated into dust motes, which then clung to cabinets and baseboards and walls with a stubborn resistance. After cleaning up the mess, the repairman layered coat upon coat of stain and protectant, preparing it for our move-in.
At first, I was afraid to walk on the new floors, afraid to move about the house with confidence. I didn’t want to be the first to leave behind a mark of my movements on the smooth glaze of red oak. I wanted to discover a scratch and blame someone else for it, rather than leave behind scrapes of my own.
My kids moved through our home, swift and sure. The dog ran in circles throughout the new space, gripping the small grooves between boards with his nails, gaining purchase on the wood where there were no rugs. All while I moved about with caution and care.
Six years later, our floors are a testament to a well-lived family life. Our own atlas unfolds across the floors, where the scars and scratches reveal the map of us. Here, he dragged the chair across the room to reach the hidden box of Fruit Loops cereal. There, the new puppy comically ran in place, paws slipping with excitement. Here, she clicked across the room in high heels while her prom date waited. There, she dropped the full weight of her backpack in middle-school-induced despair.
I got over myself and left enough goudges and marks to prove I exist here too. I am allowed to take up space here, to live imperfectly here, to drop and drag and click and scrape my memories into the warm, oaked goodness of our family foundation. I create here, dream here, laugh and discipline and yell and cry here. I belong, here.
The floors need refinishing again, but we’ll leave them battle scarred for now. I love the memories carved into them, like tattoos on the soul of our home. They remind me to reject the lie that I must step lightly through life. Leave a mark, they shout. Leave a mark behind.
