Note: I wrote this piece last week, and having dwelled on it for a while, I’m worried the reader will think I’m feeling down, which couldn’t be further from the truth. I am quite happy these days, more than I’ve been in years. Life is good again, and this is simply me reflecting on one part of that life.
A couple of weeks ago I was going through some boxes of stuff in my garage, in preparation for moving it into storage, the trash can, or Terry’s place (I’m slowly beginning to call it our place now), and my long time neighbor from across the street came over to talk. He and his wife have been sad watching me move out, and at one point in our conversation he nodded his head toward the house and stated You really don’t miss this, do you. And I answer no, I don’t. There was a moment of awkward silence before we moved on to talk about other things.
Looking back on that bit, I wonder what exactly did he mean? Should I be missing it? How can I not miss it with all the memories? I’ve now owned this house for a little over 12 years, and of course there are many memories associated with it, good and bad. As I’ve been moving my stuff out, painting, repairing, and cleaning, the memories come back. My kids grew up in this house, but now I am estranged from both of them, with just minimal contact from my daughter. My wife and I bought this house together, and now she’s gone. The animals are all gone.
When I finally moved back in last November, this house felt like a empty shell that I tried to fill with new things to make it feel different for me, and while I was comfortable enough, I was fooling myself into thinking I could still live here, because the memories of times past would fill my head every time I walked through the rooms. Memories that reminded me of sad times mostly. The place I stood, taking the picture of my son and wife’s bittersweet reunion after he graduated from university, a few days after her brain surgery, and how I could barely see through the camera the photo I was trying to take. The places she fell as she got worse, the corner of the living room where she breathed her last breath from her hospice bed.
Here and there are the patched walls from the gouges and holes that my daughter and her BF put in the walls, and in the garage the blackened concrete floor from the ashes of his chain smoking. Outside the ruined grass that only now is starting to grow back from where they parked their broken down cars. And then I think about the day I had to throw them out of my house because they wouldn’t leave, even after giving them 15 months of rent free living to help them get on their feet (they didn’t save a penny). And how badly they treated the dog and cat.
There are good memories too, the 18th birthday party we threw for my son, the week spent landscaping the backyard ourselves. The four kittens born on Father’s day in 2000, from a cat that the shelter told us was a fixed male. The summer my daughter and her two best friends lived in our garage, forth of July celebrations, watching the snow fall, and Christmases past, just to name a few.
But I think I knew a long time ago I wouldn’t stay here long (even if I publicly said otherwise), and had I not met Terry, I would have sold this place by now (or be in the process of it), and moved to Arizona. I may still sell it down the road, if landlording turns out to be a pain in the ass. It’s funny in a way because at one time I thought I would never move again, that this was The home, the place I’d spend the rest of my years. Naive? Eh, maybe… Who knew back then what the future would bring, and that’s a lesson for all of us, right?
But in the end, it’s not my home anymore. I feel like when my wife died, the home died with it, and it became just a house, a place to eat, sleep and keep dry in. The family that lived in it is broken now, and I don’t know how, or if it can be fixed. I hope so, but it may take awhile.
But I do know it’s time for some other people to make this house into a home again.
I’ve moved on.
Here’s a photo of the 13 by 8 foot 42 degree refrigerator I used to work in. I’m not missing it much these days. Oh, and speaking of the old job, I found out that the girl I wrote about 
