At the Miller House
By Anni Liu
Columbus, Indiana
Notice the theme of floating, our volunteer guide says, pointing to the light gray exterior walls. We take out our phones to capture the weeping European beech—the first of its kind I’ve seen—dangling dark papery leaves in cascading caves to mark the walkway into the house. On the drive up
she was already upset. All of this for just one family? she scoffed when I showed her the tickets. Why should I care about this? Now we are separated by the other tourists who look back and forth between us, not sure if we belong together. You can’t take
pictures inside, so we snap the arborvitae at the property edge, shoot the driveway cobbled with puzzle-piece terra-cotta.
Inside, it is marble, chilled. Notice the carpet, a perfect replica of the original. This the first famous house where I’ve been let in. What a dream. 360-degree fireplace and a conversation pit, the cushion colors of which would be switched according to season. We shuffle through
the rooms, rotating our bodies to see it all again: the golds and greens and peacock blues. I don’t know the names for any of these things except what the guide tells me: primitive figurines collected by Mr. Miller, folk art next to a glass piece that won an award at the Venice Biennale.
The glossy kitchen where Mrs. Miller herself clearly never cooked, island cabinets being exactly face-level to hide the expression of the one cooking or cleaning on the other side. To see the other side
of a room, my mother steps off the beige runner and onto the stone floor and the guide stops mid-sentence to remind her to please stay on the marked path. Everyone—the rest of us who have no trouble staying where we are told—turns and looks. My own irritation
I muzzle by staring into the chandelier. The house and its light, a room for each of the children. The empty wall where Monet water lilies once hung.
Then we come to the piano. Look closer, isn’t it a bit longer than your regular Steinway baby grand? And look, someone had painted the underside a deep red. For my first five years in this country, I played a tinny keyboard. Then my mother bought a one-hundred-year-old spinet
from a church yard sale. We sanded its varnish-flecked body smooth and painted it baby blue. It never held its tune, but it played, notes leaking into each other, filling the apartment with sound. Don’t worry, I want to tell her now, softening, there’s a museum for that, too.
she was already upset. All of this for just one family? she scoffed when I showed her the tickets. Why should I care about this? Now we are separated by the other tourists who look back and forth between us, not sure if we belong together. You can’t take
pictures inside, so we snap the arborvitae at the property edge, shoot the driveway cobbled with puzzle-piece terra-cotta.
Inside, it is marble, chilled. Notice the carpet, a perfect replica of the original. This the first famous house where I’ve been let in. What a dream. 360-degree fireplace and a conversation pit, the cushion colors of which would be switched according to season. We shuffle through
the rooms, rotating our bodies to see it all again: the golds and greens and peacock blues. I don’t know the names for any of these things except what the guide tells me: primitive figurines collected by Mr. Miller, folk art next to a glass piece that won an award at the Venice Biennale.
The glossy kitchen where Mrs. Miller herself clearly never cooked, island cabinets being exactly face-level to hide the expression of the one cooking or cleaning on the other side. To see the other side
of a room, my mother steps off the beige runner and onto the stone floor and the guide stops mid-sentence to remind her to please stay on the marked path. Everyone—the rest of us who have no trouble staying where we are told—turns and looks. My own irritation
I muzzle by staring into the chandelier. The house and its light, a room for each of the children. The empty wall where Monet water lilies once hung.
Then we come to the piano. Look closer, isn’t it a bit longer than your regular Steinway baby grand? And look, someone had painted the underside a deep red. For my first five years in this country, I played a tinny keyboard. Then my mother bought a one-hundred-year-old spinet
from a church yard sale. We sanded its varnish-flecked body smooth and painted it baby blue. It never held its tune, but it played, notes leaking into each other, filling the apartment with sound. Don’t worry, I want to tell her now, softening, there’s a museum for that, too.
Source: Poetry (October 2021)