It’s no coincidence that my last blog post (more than two years ago) was the sharing of my eulogy to my Mother. I thought about coming back to write countless times but, as I said to anyone who asked why I stopped blogging, I just wasn’t “in the mood”. It always felt like my blog was a place for light writing…for laughing about the silly moments of parenthood and marriage. Not a place for sadness. I still feel that way. Mostly.
I don’t often (ever?) wear my heart on my sleeve. During my mother’s illness and even after her death, it was only with my very closest friends and family (and sometimes not even with them) that I showed my fears, my anger, my grief. I’m a “hunker down and get through it” kind of person. It is what it is. It may suck. It may hurt. It may be totally fucking unfair…but it is what it is.
So, last week, when I had to go to my recently-sold, about-to-close childhood home to go through things I might want to keep…I went alone. Which was, in hindsight, maybe not so smart.
My Dad was away having already boxed up his things, arranged for movers, storage and booked an estate sale for the remainder. I was to just go in and take what I wanted. Christmas ornaments, yearbooks, things like that. I brought the dog and planned to spend the night there. Just one night. Easy peasy. Right?
We arrived to a lush, green yard. As always, my heart sang at the beauty of a VT summer. The smell, the deep color, the rolling mountains. I’ve since become a coastal girl but the stunning Vermont landscape is forever in my blood. I threw a ball for the dog dozens of times upon our arrival, loving his long leash-less strides, his boundless energy, his delighted rolls across the perfectly soft lawn.
Eventually, he tired and it was time to face the music and head inside. It wasn’t more than a few minutes after we went in that I realized I’d made a mistake coming alone. Wrapped furniture, empty closets, rolled rugs, boxes, echoes over hard wood floors. This wasn’t “home” as I wanted to remember it but rather a shell of what once was. Of what it might have been had my mother never developed Parkinson’s. It would have been the place I brought my family (multiple generations perhaps someday). Where my Mom would have been counting the days until our arrival, throwing open the door (that I just unlocked with a key I’d never seen before) and her arms around us as soon as the car rolled to stop.
It wasn’t that house. It wouldn’t ever be that house. I wanted my memories of childhood to be that yard…the house as it once was. Not what it IS. So, I hustled through that house, my confused dog by my side. There wasn’t the meticulous sorting through things with a smile as happy memories came back to me. Truth be told, I couldn’t get out of there fast enough.
That’s not to say it was a worthless trip. I DID get the Christmas ornaments. I got a few things my boys were happy to see again from their visits years ago. I got some other things that are now here in my own house…downstairs…sitting in a box I’ll get to eventually.
My favorite things to come home with me, though? Silly. Unless you knew my Mom, who undoubtedly spent HOURS crafting the curse-breaking 2004 Red Sox roster into these little guys.
I’ll miss that house but not because of what it is. Just because of what it once was. Because it was ONCE home to me, to my Dad, to countless pets, countless moments of love and conflict, laughter and tears. And because it was home to the wonderful, clever, crafty, Red-Sox loving woman who held us all together.
Lovely tribute to your mom. I think about blogging a lot, too. I miss your posts and mine 🙂
Very sweet.