by Cathy
FOR RENT
Never did two words affect me as deeply as these did the other day; they were plastered across the living room window of the house on Mozart Street where I spent my childhood. Those same windows where I eagerly awaited the daily return of my father from work and that same living room where I would undoubtedly wait and "surprise" him every evening when he walked in the front door. I wasn't expecting to see that sign - I merely drove by the building to reminisce, to see how different it felt now that my parents had officially moved out after 36 years. I was not expecting to see that sign.
Like a bullet ricocheting through my insides, those two words left my eyes, processed through to my brain, dropped down to my heart and shot right back up to my eyes in the form of waves of sobs - all within seconds. I wasn't ready for that reaction yet I knew that selling our childhood home would be like grieving the loss of loved one.
As I drove away in a bleary-eyed mess, I remembered how I was seven years-old when we moved in and I thought that beautiful structure was a castle, with its clear, diamond-shaped doorknobs, its stained-glass windows and its regal architecture gracing the facade's roof line. That castle, which now holds all of my memories, my secrets, my dreams, my past, my life, will now be filled with others' lives, although I don't see how there will be any room left for them.
It was the place I grew from a child, to a teenager, to a college student, to a married woman. I know too well that spot on the floor in my room where I would spend hours on the phone with boys or girlfriends. Those rounded cement decorations flanking our front door which we used as an intercom when we were playing Charlie's Angels. The front stoop, where we spent countless, carefree summer nights playing, gossiping, hanging out, choreographing dances to Queen and REO Speedwagon for our neighborhood talent show. The garage where we spent wonderfully simple Easters with our grandparents roasting lambs, and where we kept our first dog, Ginger, who ate the bicycle seat of my favorite pink bike. Where I learned how to ride a bike. The family birthday parties in the back yard. The back alley where I first learned how to drive with my dad in our white Plymouth Valiant. The familiar path to Virginia Park, where we walked or rode our bikes with our grandfather. All now distant, yet still vibrant memories.
Just last week, after 36 years of living there, my parents left their brick-and-mortar child behind. They not only sold my childhood home, but in a sense, they sold my childhood - and that of my sister's. That place that was filled with countless memories - sad, funny, memorable, devastating, fun - and every single one of those memories, relevant threads that tightly bind the fabric of our youth and ultimately, who we became as adults. The places we used to hide, the places we used to hide stuff, the doors and door frames we've written on, the places on the walls we made those dents and the stories that went with them, the hidden places in the furnace room and cubbies where we sharpied our names into the walls, the cement patch behind the garage where my grandfather, God rest his soul, carved out his initials.
The move was bittersweet in the sense that my parents had to move due to familial riffs and other extenuating circumstances, which had become more unbearable the past five years. For this reason, it was more of a relief for them to leave. For my sister and I, however, it was heartbreaking. We moved from Mozart Street on good terms, full of nothing but great memories that will always resonate into strings of stories that will forever weave the webs of our lives as we pass these down to our children. That is how we prefer to think of that building - the house that will forever be our home.
Seeing this home with moving boxes filled with our past, is something I never thought I would see.
Even worse, is seeing it completely empty.
But I didn't get to see that due to the timing of the move. My sister, on the other hand, did. I was jealous of her for having that closure, for allowing herself to grieve the loss of our childhood home in a way I didn't. She told me that after she walked through it, she stood in the foyer and said aloud, "Thank you and goodbye. I hope the next people treat you as good as we did."
I felt devastated that I didn't get my turn in saying goodbye and seeing it empty. On the other hand, I don't know if that was necessarily the best thing to do to myself. I am now content with remembering it full of life, memories and our things.
My mother told me if she was able to wrap her arms around the building and hug it tightly, she would. She put as much blood, sweat, tears and TLC into maintaining that building as she did in raising her children. That pride in ownership is what she will miss the most. No matter what the circumstances for leaving that place, the fact remains that these bricks and glass and wood that formed our childhood home will always be a part of who we are.
Just like the soul of a person gives us life, spirit and individuality, I believe the soul of a home are the people that reside within it. We give it life, we give it love, we give it spirit and memories. Whether we remain in that structure's shell or not, our soul will always resonate within it. Our history will remain fused with that brick and mortar of our past.
If home is where the heart is, then my home will always be that two-flat on Mozart Street where I grew up.
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| Thank you...and goodbye. |
