I was so exhausted last night, I went to bed at 9pm. I slept deeply, and dreamed of people long gone from my life.
I remember moving to a house in the country with my three daughters. We left a new, beautiful house for an old, dated house. It belonged to the mother of one of my best friends in high school. Her mother was moving, she told me I should call her, maybe she would rent it to me. I did call her, and she sold the house to me.
When we first walked through the door, my 11 year old turned to me, and said, " My father must have done something awful to you, for you to move us here."
It was true. The house needed help. All the ceilings were yellow, from smoke. The windows were dated, and some of them tilted open from the top, into the room. They were hopeless. The living room had dark brown vinyl on the floor, and dark wood paneling on the walls. There was one bathroom, and the washer and dryer were both in it. In one bedroom, a glass of water on the bedside stand would freeze in mid January. There were so many things wrong with the house, that it was hard to know where to start.
But over the years, it became our home. We changed the windows. We painted all the ceilings, and we beat back the brush that had grown up for years. We planted perennials and grapes, horseradish, asparagus, and plum trees. As the years went by, there were gleaming hardwood floors, and big windows looking out over the meadow, and to the woods beyond. I still miss the sound of peepers, watching the deer at twilight, and the complete darkness at night.
We reminisce a lot about the little house in Putnam Station, NY. It was a house filled with love. We laughed there and cried there, and we all grew up in different ways.
Twenty five years later.
While we don't live there anymore, we are still family.
Home is in the heart, and we all took some of that house with us, and we won't ever let it go.