Where is home?
It’s 2:00am. As I lay here in my childhood home, alone in a king-size bed with only a dozen ornate pillows to keep me company, I can’t help but feel desperately homesick.
It doesn’t make sense. This is where I made most of my childhood memories. This is where I experienced life through my preteen years. My family and I built this house with our own hands. I remember the summers when all my neighborhood friends were out riding golf carts and jumping on trampolines while I was busy drying and staining cedar siding. The smell of the wood was so luxurious and I was amazed that it had been shipped from the somewhere far away. With my dad’s knowledgeable guidance, I hammered nails into the framework of the wall I’m leaning against now. I remember the weeks and months I spent with my mom and sister painting every surface of this immense interior space. Six thousand square feet of literal love and sweat.
When I had my accident and endured three months in a far away hospital, I ached to come home to this spot. To this street. I wanted to badly to get away from the harsh white walls of the rehab center, the terrible smells and sounds of fellow patients weeping in frustration and depression at night. When I finally came home to a small room on the first floor of my house, I worked hard to get well enough and strong enough that I could move back upstairs to my big room full of my beloved 1950’s antique mahogany furniture.
But this place feels foreign to me. My family is as wonderful as ever, but I just can’t feel completely comfortable here. Not while they’re away and sleeping. The sheetrock has all been replaced since the fire of 2007, and the paint colors are all new to me. The wooden floors are all new, and the familiar wood details have been replaced with strange new ones. The family room furniture is nicer, more comfortable, and way more functional—yet it bears no scars from childhood forts gone awry nor memories of sneaked late-night kisses with the boy I would someday marry.
I forgot my toothpaste and face lotion. I had to brush my teeth with water since everyone was already asleep, and I followed it with flossing and gum in an effort to achieve the same effect. There were no towels in the bathroom closet so I used a rough paper towel to dry my face and hands. My entire nighttime routine was damaged. Now I can’t sleep. Those habits were formed in this house, yet tonight I couldn’t even complete them. I feel…off.
I can’t remember where the light switches are. I stumble around in the dark looking for them and when I find one, it rarely achieves the desired result. Even many of the lighting arrangements have been changed since the fire. There are new can lights in new places and ceiling fans once operated with the flick of a switch are now at the mercy of a mysteriously hidden remote. Once I finally find what I believe to be the correct light switch, I often realize I can’t reach it. A new or shifted piece of furniture is blocking my grasp.
The house just isn’t as wheelchair friendly as it used to be. It doesn’t need to be. I’ve been gone for over five years. But it still makes me feel uncomfortable. The guest bathroom and bedroom were actually remodeled after the fire to make them easier for me to use, but somehow I still feel trapped. My stair lift that used to take me upstairs is gone. I don’t even know where it is.
Memories are fading. Like the one from when I found got the news that I made the cheerleading squad in 6th grade, and I couldn’t contain my adrenaline and excitement. The gaudy rose-colored carpet covering the stairs took a beating as I ran up and down it over and over again while shouting in delight at my good fortune, telephone still in hand. The two-toned carpeting has since been replaced with beautiful wood and stone, but the memories don’t seem to be as vivid in the grain.
It is oddly quiet here. There are no occasional fire truck sirens. There are no young married couples laughing and talking outside my window. There are no TiVo bumps and chirps drifting down from the friendly neighbors above. There are no happy babies squealing out on the sidewalk.
There is no sidewalk. Only a very dark street.
I can only hear the ticking and hourly chiming of the large living room clock. While growing up, that clock was such an integral part of my daily white noise that I often didn’t even hear it. Since I’ve been here, it has pealed out four times. And every time I jump at the surprise. It is no longer a comforting tone of home; it is the distant, frightening gong of a stranger.
Outside I can hear the wind and rain beating against the house. The tall evergreen trees rustle chillingly and my body reactively tenses up.
I’ve always been terrified of the wind.
I remember sleeping in the room above me—MY room with the light lavender walls and deep plush purple carpet—the same room where my younger sister is sleeping now amidst bright pink walls and cold hardwood flooring. I can't even bear to go up and see it because it makes me so sad that it's gone. The wind would whip and whistle around my corner of the house, and cause me to run panicked down the stairs screaming about tornado nightmares and snapped pine trees that were certain to fall upon me at any minute. This house is certainly the safest house in town. My dad built it to withstand almost all of the natural disasters possible in this area. The basement has it’s own tornado room, a fort of cinderblock reinforced with poured concrete and rebar. There were even bunks for sleeping, and during particularly scary storms, I would sleep down there in an uncomfortable bunk, happy to be in silence and far away from the screams of the wind.
Often I would squeeze my eyes closed and fantasize about the day that I could have a strong husband to share a bed with, one that would protect me from the wind and make me feel safe. I’d pray for guidance to find him, and to be blessed to find him quickly. I imagined he was far away, in some distant land I’d never visited. I waited for him to suddenly appear in my life. I didn’t realize he was sitting right behind me in class every day. I never knew he was merely across town, listening to the same eerie wind through the thin walls of his family’s modest home.
My heart aches to have him here. This king-size bed in this huge room is so very lonely. I’m cold and there’s no one to snuggle with. I’m hugging a pillow with a myriad of annoying little tassels instead of a warm, breathing human whose mere breathing pattern makes me feel safe and loved.
As ridiculous as it is, I find my self crying real, stinging tears even as I think of him. I can see him alone in our smaller bed, in our smaller room, in our much smaller house—our little kingdom that we built together.
It’s an elegant though humble space, but it is unquestioningly, undoubtedly home.
Not so much because of the walls we painted or furniture we bought, but because that’s where he is. He IS my home. If he were here, I know this bed would not feel so empty, this place would not feel so unknown.
I sat with my parents in their room tonight and came up with any excuse to sit and chat. I didn’t want to come to this room alone. I knew the despair I would feel. My mom could sense my distress and offered to watch Big Bang Theory with me. This was comforting, watching a show that Jeremy and I watch together every week. I laughed and immersed myself in the silly nerd stories. But every mention of Battlestar Galactica or technical computer lingo only reminded me of who I was missing—my brave, heroic, funny, kind, gorgeous geek of a knight in shining armor. After three episodes my mom was too tired to continue, and I grudgingly brought myself here to this spot. Alone.
Now it's 3:00 and I’ve had my cry, and convinced myself—somewhat--that the gusty winds will probably not get me tonight. The little life inside me has woken up, and every little kick and stretch is a comforting reminder of her Daddy, the very same amazing person whose absence is currently flooding my being. I know she misses him too. I know she is missing his voice telling her goodnight through my belly, and missing his warmth as we snuggle together as a family. I don’t think I’ll separate us from him again for a very long time. Maybe never.
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