What is home, anyway?
A lot of people I know refer to their parents' house as "home." That always perplexed me. I mean, I have my own house, which I consider home. Yeah, I grew up in a house in Melrose, but I don't live there anymore, and I haven't for the last eight-plus years. So when talking about said residence, I call it "my parents' house" or "my mom's house" or "the house in Melrose."
So as mentioned, on Thursday night, I went directly from work to my parents' house in Melrose. I had dinner with the parentals, settled in to watch the America's Got Talent finale and then, like I did every night for the 20-plus years I lived there, kissed my parents goodnight and went up to my childhood room. Which is now filled with my mom's clothes and her sewing machine, but it's still my room.
There were still the sheets on the bed I slept on when I was eight -- now pilly and thin, but a real tie between the past and present. Some of the things I left in that house still looked at me as I laid in my twin bed, the mattress comfortable as an old friend, yet so much narrower than the queen-sized bed M and I share. And there was no one in there with me. I was sleeping alone, a rare event in the last six years I've lived with M.
I still knew every creak in the floor, every sound my parents made as they tossed and turned next door. It felt like home and yet not home. But I guess the proof is in the results: After some initial difficulty getting to sleep, I slept like a log and was more relaxed the next day than I have been in awhile.
I had coffee with my mom and watched Regis and Kelly with her in our bathrobes. It was jarringly familiar and yet alien. I easily pulled a spoon out of the drawer, my memory remembering where everything was kept. But a few times out of rote I reached for things where they are in my own house, only to find nothing, pulling me back into the present.
It was cool. But I was glad to come home. Home, to Leominster.
So as mentioned, on Thursday night, I went directly from work to my parents' house in Melrose. I had dinner with the parentals, settled in to watch the America's Got Talent finale and then, like I did every night for the 20-plus years I lived there, kissed my parents goodnight and went up to my childhood room. Which is now filled with my mom's clothes and her sewing machine, but it's still my room.
There were still the sheets on the bed I slept on when I was eight -- now pilly and thin, but a real tie between the past and present. Some of the things I left in that house still looked at me as I laid in my twin bed, the mattress comfortable as an old friend, yet so much narrower than the queen-sized bed M and I share. And there was no one in there with me. I was sleeping alone, a rare event in the last six years I've lived with M.
I still knew every creak in the floor, every sound my parents made as they tossed and turned next door. It felt like home and yet not home. But I guess the proof is in the results: After some initial difficulty getting to sleep, I slept like a log and was more relaxed the next day than I have been in awhile.
I had coffee with my mom and watched Regis and Kelly with her in our bathrobes. It was jarringly familiar and yet alien. I easily pulled a spoon out of the drawer, my memory remembering where everything was kept. But a few times out of rote I reached for things where they are in my own house, only to find nothing, pulling me back into the present.
It was cool. But I was glad to come home. Home, to Leominster.
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