I’ve called many places home, the most recent a loft apartment shared with three roommates (always with three roommates, the people may change, but the number never will). I’ve lived in many houses, spent semesters abroad at different schools, soaked up sun in shares and called each one home.
At the end of the workday, I told a girl in the office that I was going home for the night. My mother called soon after, asking when it was that I was coming home for a visit to them.
At the end of the workday, I told a girl in the office that I was going home for the night. My mother called soon after, asking when it was that I was coming home for a visit to them.
The 200 year old house my parents reside in now is not the place (or places) I grew up. That was in a handful of houses, ever increasing in size, littered throughout the state of Connecticut. Memories of them run and rush together; though there are salient memories of each, I sometimes I can't recall which one I’m thinking of.
The things I miss from my real homes, my complete homes where my roommates are related to me by blood, struck me today on the ride to my adult home, where I would need at least an hour to tidy up and make the beds with hospital corners under the duvet just to diffuse my mother’s horror after arriving.
Tonight, the things I miss from home are:
Stoking the fire with the rooster-shaped poker, then at my father’s insistence, closing the flue before I go sleep
Quilt upon quilt on the bed, and the dog, for warmth
A white yard, days and weeks beyond the snowfall
No makeup
Home-brewed coffee and my mother’s scrambled eggs on Sunday mornings
Chirping birds
The blare of world news in the evening
My parents’ cocktail hour filled with an hour of Dewar’s, then a dip into the Talisker
A house that’s never dusty, never with a sinkful of dishes, never with piled laundry in the bedrooms
Good lighting in the halls
A mailbox full of bills and junk-mail that isn’t for me
Garden books, history books, school books, art books
Orange juice by the gallon
Two large leather couches and proper drapes
Ettigiers, moss-covered stone baths, and chandeliers of chains from my parents’ antique store
Cats jumping from the banister in the dark
The smell of my mother’s thirteen-year-old Lexus that they refuse to replace
My brother’s basketball posters and strewn video games
The washer and dryer
Sheafs of paper stacked like cords of wood in my mother’s office
The freedom to be barefoot all day
The drive to the grocery store, the best one, two towns over
Curving green roads
Sleeping in a screened in porch
The first chill of the pool
The square panes of summer sun
Walking along an open road with no cars
Deer in the lily garden
Horses beyond the fence at the neighbor’s yard
The sound of rushing water
The afternoon shade of golden, speckled trees
Maybe it's time I took a trip home...
The things I miss from my real homes, my complete homes where my roommates are related to me by blood, struck me today on the ride to my adult home, where I would need at least an hour to tidy up and make the beds with hospital corners under the duvet just to diffuse my mother’s horror after arriving.
Tonight, the things I miss from home are:
Stoking the fire with the rooster-shaped poker, then at my father’s insistence, closing the flue before I go sleep
Quilt upon quilt on the bed, and the dog, for warmth
A white yard, days and weeks beyond the snowfall
No makeup
Home-brewed coffee and my mother’s scrambled eggs on Sunday mornings
Chirping birds
The blare of world news in the evening
My parents’ cocktail hour filled with an hour of Dewar’s, then a dip into the Talisker
A house that’s never dusty, never with a sinkful of dishes, never with piled laundry in the bedrooms
Good lighting in the halls
A mailbox full of bills and junk-mail that isn’t for me
Garden books, history books, school books, art books
Orange juice by the gallon
Two large leather couches and proper drapes
Ettigiers, moss-covered stone baths, and chandeliers of chains from my parents’ antique store
Cats jumping from the banister in the dark
The smell of my mother’s thirteen-year-old Lexus that they refuse to replace
My brother’s basketball posters and strewn video games
The washer and dryer
Sheafs of paper stacked like cords of wood in my mother’s office
The freedom to be barefoot all day
The drive to the grocery store, the best one, two towns over
Curving green roads
Sleeping in a screened in porch
The first chill of the pool
The square panes of summer sun
Walking along an open road with no cars
Deer in the lily garden
Horses beyond the fence at the neighbor’s yard
The sound of rushing water
The afternoon shade of golden, speckled trees
Maybe it's time I took a trip home...
7 comments:
So true...home isa sweet place to be when your not there
Sounds like your a little homesick...maybe a small little trip wouldnt be such a bad thing
U MAKE ME WANT TO GO HOME...TO YOUR HOUSE!
When I lived up north, my apartment was "home", and my parents house was "home home" to distinguish between the two places. Then, home was something treasured, since I only got it a few times a year.
Go and enjoy it while you still can, and appreciate having your parents and brother--life is too short and changes quickly.
Wow ... you're both literary AND poetic. I love your writing and I love your imagery.
My cramped, 300 sq. foot apt. with a view of a spacious apt across a short alley, no cold water (who needs cold water anyway?), and seven shades of white on my wall from when I thought I was going to repaint it, seems much lonelier, dingier, and positively cramped.
The stack of mail is so true...We so wanted to get mail every day of the year it was only major holidays that brought us that sealed joy! Perfectly put. I have added you to my list of reads! Just keep writing...
Thanks for all the great comments guys--I suppose it's the act of being away from home that makes it so rosy. As soon as my marathon Saturday classes are through, I'm headed for a weekend home...
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