This post is in conjunction with the January blog a day challenge.
I don’t know where I will be in a year, or at the beginning of 2015 when I am set to finish my Ph.D. I don’t know where I will hang my hat, or my purse for that matter. But when I think of home, I don’t think of Glasgow (yet) or London (maybe) or Boston (where I’ve lived and loved), I think of the house I grew up in. The house my mum lived her adult life, and died. The house where not 2, but 4 girls have been raised.
It wasn’t a great or perfect house, but it was home. The front lawn which housed mounds of snow for my sister and I to sled down, later expanded for a 4 car household. The house where my 13th birthday party was held, when Doritos were smushed into the rug and Silly Sting littered the yard and driveway. A house where fights were the norm, but where a friend could come to find peace.
It’s a house of secrets, still kept in their walls. Promises made and broken by sisters, told to mothers and kept from fathers. Where Christmas was an event no matter how much or little money was earned. The Christmas turkey, prepared on Christmas eve, and consumed on Christmas day; the stuffing the tell taste sign of how much alcohol was consumed the night before (the more the better, FYI!)
It’s a house of tears. It’s the place I came to when I didn’t know where else to go after being once again ridiculed- or barked at (or worse), at school. It’s a place where confessions were held at the messy kitchen table or on the backyard stairs. It’s the place I came to lick my wounds after ending the biggest mistake of my life. It’s the place I came to when my mum was dying and all I had were tears. It’s where I landed after failing abroad.
It’s a place now where 2 young girls are planning their lives. Listening to music, watching tv, and growing older. I can’t believe how they’ve grown.
And sadly, I know it’s the place where I will return to again, when it’s time. But I don’t want to think about that now. Enough tears have been shed.
For as much as I hated being there as a kid and a teenager, for as much as I wanted a house with matching furniture and nice hardwood floors (and a second bathroom!), it is the only house I’ve ever been able to call a home. And while there may come a time I will have to say goodbye to it, that house, with its secrets and creaky floors will always, be home.