What Used to be Brown

What will I discover? It’s a mystery to unearth, similar to John and the bricks.

Written by Sevyn Michaela-Rose Collage by Bryn Renèe Mayo

The layout of the brick flooring on my patio is in the pattern of a double basket-weave. Pairs of parallel bricks lay vertically, and then horizontally, and so on. I never thought much about bricks or how they could be arranged for aesthetics until now. These bricks are the foundation of my patio. Sturdy. Dependable. I run my fingers across the worndown clay, feeling the soil that rises between each one. I wonder to myself how long they’ve been here. Who placed them into the ground? What were their names? Why this pattern? After some research on the double basket-weave pattern, I found that it was a common choice among bricklayers during the 1950’s—the decade this condo was built—because the layout process is quick, efficient.

When I first moved into the Winston Churchill Condominium complex, the bricks on my patio were covered with weeds and earth—something they had in common with Mr. Churchill. I spent a week pulling up Ivy and Spiny Sowthistle, shoveling the dirt, and hosing down the bricks. What used to be brown became a wine-colored red. What used to be hidden became seen. Among the patio ruins, I found all kinds of items that I assumed were left by previous tenants. Old flowerpots, dead herbs, a not-so-yellow tennis ball.

It was only a ruler, but it made me feel connected to this stranger.

As I traveled inside the two-story condo, I wondered what else I could find. There could’ve been an endless number of tenants that came before me; I was renting the place after all. Inside a kitchen drawer rolled around two glass lightbulbs and a black pen. I found a dent in the dining room wall as if someone had bumped a piece of furniture into it. A can of white paint and leftover window blinds sat in the closet. And the only thing left in my room was a wooden birdhouse on my window ledge.

Inevitably, I opened the white-painted attic door in the ceiling tucked away on the second level of the condo. The door itself lacked a handle or string to pull, so as a result, I stood on a chair and used a butter knife to loosen it. Wooden stairs unfolded from a darkness that smelled of musty lumber and, ignoring the creaking steps, I climbed into it. There were more items than I expected. The hanging lightbulb illuminated two broken side tables, a small run-down bed frame, and a dozen cardboard boxes—all framed by wooden planks and rockwool insulation.

With the flashlight on my phone, I sifted through the boxes. A lot of the items seemed like junk. Old receipts from Kroger, broken dishes, crumpled pieces of paper with no writing on them. I feared thatall I might learn about this tenant was that they went to Kroger, were clumsy in the kitchen, and suffered from writer’s block. And then I pulled out a wedding invitation dated for 2006 and addressed to a man named John. Underneath that, I found a printed-out email from a friend inviting the same John to perform at a music venue in Atlanta. So, the tenant’s name was John. After that, I found a ruler that I took and used for my design classes. It was only a ruler, but it made me feel connected to this stranger. Among some of the crumpled-up paper, there was a handmade bracelet along with a love note from a woman named Sarah, and a poster for Bonnaroo’s lineup from 2005. Lastly, I found a thank-you note from the couple who got married; John performed at their ceremony. So not only did John go to Kroger, lead a clumsy hand in the kitchen, and suffer from writer’s block, but he was a musician with a current or ex-lover named Sarah.

I’ve been walking among the bricks on my patio for over a year now. I’m sure they’ve seen my feet change over the days. I learned how to live on my own here—I paid bills on time, cooked Cacio e Pepe, adopted my own dog and named her Stevie. Mornings have been filled with coffee, quiet thoughts, and poetry about the ocean. Nights among friends have been illuminated by the hanging string lights outside. I discovered moving plays by Henrik Ibsen, how to successfully escape the bites of mosquitos, and how to be okay with solitude amidst a quarantine.

I went through a breakup most recently; leaving someone you still love feels violent. I imagine it’s like pulling off my own flesh. To remedy this, I listen to James Taylor and read scripture. Things I’ve been doing for a long time, yet they feel more alive to me now. There were also a lot of firsts at this condo. I grew my first tomato plant here. I rescued a stray kitten here. I decided to be a writer here.

When I move out of the Winston Churchill Condominium complex, I wonder what I might leave behind for the next tenant to find? I imagine they would discover a few stray coffee beans in the kitchen. Surely one of my gold earrings or a dog toy. Maybe they’ll locate the polaroid of me andmy ex-boyfriend that I misplaced just like I found Sarah’s love note to John. I wouldn’t be surprised if they found scraps of scribbled paper in my closet—all unfinished poems or daily schedules broken down hour-by-hour. And on the patio, maybe a garden gnome or two.

The sun rises just to set, and the bricks on my patio have seen this almost twenty-five thousand times.

These bricks are the foundation of my patio. Today, I sit under my beige umbrella surrounded by five-foot-tall hedges, Stevie laying at my feet. A church bell rings, and the breeze blows, and I think about the continuation of life. The seasons and the changes and how time prevails. If someone had told me when I first moved into this condo that I would undergo a quarantine, adopt Stevie, and break up with someone I thought I would marry, I wouldn’t have believed them. The sun rises just to set, and the bricks on my patio have seen this almost twenty-five thousand times. There must be some kind of wisdom that comes with this. I run my feet over the grooves of the bricks. I want to ask them to share with me all they’ve seen and all they know. How many more sunrises and sunsets will I see? Who will still be there with me to watch them? What will I learn? What will I discover? It’s a mystery to unearth, similar to John and the bricks. Who used to be a stranger became a living, breathing life. What used to be brown became a wine-colored red. I’m not sure what will become of my tomorrow. All I know is that I must look for it.