Saturday night I stayed at the home I grew up in. My dad wasn’t there and the house was quiet. I have a couple of roommates and I welcomed the quiet to be honest.
I ended up spending the morning there as well on Sunday and Dad, as he is rarely there any longer, has turned off the cable recently. I was able to read and generally bum around. I did a load of clothes… may have forgotten to check the dryer vent…. Sorry dad, some things never change.
It was odd to be there and be there by myself. This house is a modest 2 story and as I sat I realized that growing up, there was rarely a time I was by myself. I have 2 sisters and our time would often overlap with friends and sleepovers or family friends sharing dinner.
Sunday morning as I was getting ready for the baby shower I was going to that afternoon I swear I could smell cinnamon rolls baking, a special treat at the end of the week for us growing up. As I opened the back porch I caught myself opening it as I would it Little Red, our three legged pup was still back there and I didn’t want her to get in the house. I walked through the sega room, a room that hasn’t had a sega in it for a good 15 years I bet. I slipped in the kitchen in the permanently slick spot where Dad still irons once weekly spraying his starch liberally.
And I realized as surreal memories came and went while I was there that growing up I was lucky to be in a full on home and not just a house. It was full and it was loud and now it’s changing. It is true that you can’t go home again. But it is also true that you can be reminded of it and the people that remind you of it.