This House

This house is my home.  The physical home I reside in, the one I live and work in.

This house is my past. This house is the here and now, and it is the future.

They say you’re supposed to post pone any big changes for a while after the death of someone close.  Your brain is in a fog, or at least mine was.  After mom died I was in a hazy fog for a few months.  The same could be said about the time following dad’s death, but it manifested it’s way much differently, primarily through brooding and anger.

After dad died it was probably a week after the funeral that I began to frequent this house.  Dad had left a proverbial and a literal mess behind and I began to try cleaning it all up, put pieces back together, and in many ways, start again fresh.  At this point maybe two weeks had passed since dad had died.  I forced and pushed myself to continue on; things had to get done.  I was still in the fresh stages of mourning at this point, and then I was stressed out over this house and the messes I had to clean up.

“Just sell the house.”

“Why don’t you just sell it?”

I was angry.  How could someone suggest such a thing?  I know now that most people who told me to sell the house didn’t take into account some things.  Like I have spent 22 of my 23 years of life in this house.  22 years of my relationship with my momma was concentrated in these four walls.  23 years of my rocky relationship with my dad was also concreted into this house.

If I took everything out of this house, anyone else would see a house.

But for me, it is not just a house.

The memories are still here, good and bad.

In some ways, since it’s just my brother and I left now this house is an entity all of itself.  The house is more human to me now because of the absence of mom and dad.  I still hear the laughter at the kitchen table from inappropriate jokes.  I see momma sitting on the couch with her legs propped up reading her Kindle while dad flip flopped between channels on the TV from his recliner.  I smell the remnants of the string of fire crackers my brother set off outside my bedroom door and can hear mom trying not to laugh from the living room.

This house is home.

This house.

 

 

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