It was harder to do than I’d expected. After all, I’ve had nine months to get used to the idea. I’ve been there, sometimes several times a week, cleaning, purging and preparing the house to go on the market. I thought I’d cried all my tears. Still, when I spoke the words aloud, releasing the house to a new family and asking that they would love and enjoy it as much as my parents, and all of their children and grandchildren have, my voice faltered and the tears coursed down my cheeks again. In my mind I'd already "left" that house, but my heart was still a few steps behind.
Afterwards, my friends and I built a small fire on the beach and waited for the full moon to rise over the lake. Each of us tried to put into words what home meant to us, and shared our memories of the homes we’d lived in and our dreams of the homes we still look forward to occupying in the future. There were vivid descriptions of the smells of baking bread or apple pies, of the current bush in the back yard and the delicious preserves a loving mother made from the fruit. The memories of dark and dusty attics on hot summer days, of the special, warm cubby- spot behind a kitchen oil stove on cold winter mornings, or cool autum nights spent on front porch steps made us all smile. A friend who’d lived in 27 homes by the time she was 27 years old shared her dream of purchasing her husband’s family farm.
We talked about becoming wives and mothers and our efforts to give our own children happy homes. We wondered at our success. What would our kids say if asked to describe the homes in which they grew up?
My parents always gave me a good, safe and nurturing home, but there was more than that. I struggled for the words. I thought that perhaps there was a sense of freedom growing up, but that wasn’t it exactly, for there were certainly rules and boundaries –my parents were quite strict in many ways. Yet, ours was the house where all the neighborhood kids felt welcome. So maybe it was a feeling of safety – not just physical safety, but the safety to be myself, to express my individuality and not only be accepted, but respected.
I finally settled for saying that no matter what house my parents lived in, and no matter how old I was, living with them or not – my parent’s home would always be my home – a place where I knew I was safe and welcome. Now it is my turn to create that same welcome and safety for my children and grandchildren. How, I wondered, can I do that?
On the drive from my parent's now empty house back to my home - now my only home, it struck me. To borrow a song lyric from Cher, “Home is where the heart grows.” I am 48 years old and in my parent’s home I’ve always felt the freedom to grow, to change, to take all those (sometimes scary) first steps on life’s journey and know that I wasn't walking alone. I felt the freedom to make mistakes, to stumble and to fall, knowing that whether I accepted help in getting back up, or stood again in my own way and in my own time, there would always be a place for me.
It’s not the house that I will miss, it’s the home my parents made – no matter where they lived.
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