My parents finally found a buyer who wants my childhood home.
It shouldn’t really matter. I don’t live there anymore, nor have I for the last 20 years.
But it does.
Because packing up my life into boxes has been like unraveling a story, bit by labeled Polaroid bit. This week I traveled through a wormhole into a different world that was somehow, incredibly me.
It is no wonder that an hourglass is made with sand. Moments pass through my fingers like tiny grains that fold into each other—one tumbling into the other. Indistinguishable. Packable. Like papers going into a box.
My old desk drawers hold letters that I have not seen in years. I pluck the curled notes like leaves off a tree in autumn. Every crackling, yellowed paper that I unfold reminds me of the girl that I was: loved, weird, quirky, funny, emotional, confused. Somewhere between obsessing over my pimples and my relationships I grew up.
Every item examined has history and meaning. Often I must remind myself that objects only carry the meaning that we give them. Nothing more and nothing less. That if I lived without these things comfortably, happily for so long without recalling their existence, I would manage just fine without them. Until now.
Because now I revisit them—and their significance looms again.
The memories of my dad, my grandmother, and others who left this world years ago awaken with a stretch and a yawn. Cards that they wrote preserve my grandmother’s quick wit—ever quipped with a line to make us all laugh—and my father’s love. How do I throw out such messages? In one, my grandmother wrote: “Good-bye. We’ll see each other soon.”
The words feel like hands reaching across the dimensions—touching me. Like they’re not really so far away after all. In fact, they seem to be lingering right at the end of a Hallmark card. And the dull ache of missing them returns. Like that.
Then there are the photos. Who was that young girl with the oh-so-dated perm and Sun-In-bleached hair? Can she really be me? Memories, like wine, morph with age—often sweetened or embittered, yet seasoned from being locked up in a barrel in a cool dark cellar.
At times I simply walk the halls just because I can. My hands reach out to touch the walls and make a lasting impression on my palms. How can I imprint this memory into my heart? The feelings of being a baby, a little girl, a teenager, a young woman, a daughter, a sister, a friend, a wife, and a new mother all at once rush back to me. The rooms echo with our laughter, our grief, our fights, and our play.
How do I bottle this feeling and pack it up with me?
Would it fit neatly into a box? Somehow, I don’t think so.
I’m so sad about this. So many of my memories are tied up with that home as well. Thanks, for writing about this Sarita. Even though It was not my home, it became my home away from home, and a form of haven for many, many years. I will miss it, as I miss spending time there with members of your wonderful family.
It’s true, Devorah. It was your home away from home too! We feel so mixed about it. Mostly sad for now. Wish you were here to say good-bye to the ‘apartment era’ too. Miss you!!
Thank you, Sarita. That means a lot to me.
Such beautiful writing.
Maybe the ability to express as well as you do would be better than a box.
Write more shasti
I will put your comment into a box to preserve it so that in 20 years I will find it, look at it, and feel the joy of reading it again!! Thank you so much!! xo
Beautifully expressed. I visualize you walking the halls, your heart full of memories to last a lifetime, and I think of my daughter doing the same as we contemplate moving. Maybe we’ll stay awhile longer.
Thank you so much for saying, Raulla. It is a process of letting go. You will know when the right time to move arrives. xoxo
It’s always a pleasure to read all of your entries, Sarita, but today, reading about your very personal journey was also a privilege. You made me feel everything you were feeling and that’s a gift not many possess.
Margie, your words are so kind and heartfelt. Thank you for the highest compliment!! xoxo
Hey Sarita
Reading this, I want to tell you that EACH moment of Now is as precious and to ascribe the container with the value of the content is just like mistaking the menu for the meal.
The journey, its lessons and their value to who you became and are becoming are what is important to ponder and as an alchemist, to continue to work from the substrate & use creativity and wisdom to bring about greater wisdom and growth.
Enjoy the endings as a graduation.
Blessings, Ajnira http://www.ajnira.com
Profound wisdom, as always, Ajnira. Thank you. There is most certainly a feeling of completion and closure. I’m not feeling too much the alchemist, as of now, but rather a time traveler. Though taking from the tapestry of the past and weaving it into my present surely has appeal. Love to you!! xo
Your post is lovely and reminded me of many things, Sarita. –When we moved recently from the house we’d lived in for 12 years, my youngest said, “I thought I’d live there my whole life.” –I used to say I wanted to be buried under my childhood home–it sounded romantic.– I also recently visited a different childhood home–a vacation home in Miami–and found it exactly the same, though someone else owns it. That trip was so meaningful to me. You can always go back and visit and all the memories are still there. It gives you a reason to make the journey. Best trip ever: visiting my mother’s childhood haunts with her. 🙂 Love to you, dear!
There’s something reassuring about seeing your home again and it staying the same. It must be wonderful to visit your mother’s childhood home together. You transformed the old memories into precious new ones! How very lovely. Thank you as always for commenting! Your words mean so much to me, Josie. xoxoxo
Ditto, sistah…You expressed what we’re all feeling. But wow, just wow. You’re writing and ability to express have gotten to insane levels of excellence…
Aww! Love you, Dolly. You made my day :-))) xoxo