As I sift through the final round of things, slap together one last bunch of boxes and pile everything up by the door I ponder to myself what makes a house a home. I've never prided myself on having an overly good sense of home decor or design. I go into some of my friends places and I see their style and I think -- wow, I have nice things but this place looks fabulous. I think for me my approach to making a house feel like a home has always been the items that surround it. The corks piled up from the wine bottles drank over lots of laughs (and maybe some tears), the pictures everywhere of all the people who mean so much to you, the picture frames -- each one with its own story, and then of course the bigger things like the special throw pillows or the paintings hanging on the wall. It's those things that hold the memories and for me that make my place feel like home. So as I look around now and only see piles of boxes and empty walls I realize this apartment no longer feels like home. Just like my new one that sits empty right now doesn't either -- but in just a few days (or as soon as I'm able to unpack, ugh what a process) I know it will.
And as I go through my own emotional roller coaster about moving out of this apartment and all the memories and meaning its come to hold for me in nearly 3 years, I'm also having to go through a similar roller coaster with my childhood home. My Dad has invited his girlfriend (well, now finance) in to live in his home with him. And as a result, he's ripping out every piece of furniture and photo that was part of the home I knew as my mom's and filling it with all of his fiances things. Makes sense I guess. But that doesn't mean it's easy to swallow.
Ever since my mom was torn from our lives, that house -- the house we all grew up in and my Dad has spent 41 years in -- has been a place where we can go and be reminded of my mom and all the happy memories that were shared. Every holiday dinner, Hanukkah year after year, all of her special pictures and frames that surround each room, her greenhouse, the kitchen where she prepped countless meals, the pink living room chairs where she and I would share our tea and chat, and any other little thing that my mom picked out along the way to make the house a home. All of it will be gone. And as a result, once again, it's yet another part of my mom that's gone and we need to grieve all over again.
I've watched many of my childhood friends go through the process of helping their parents move out of their childhood home and it's quite emotional. So at first thought you might think well at least my dad's not selling the house. But actually, that's what I'd prefer. Because to watch a home that holds such meaning from my ENTIRE life so quickly vanish from everything I know it as into something that is completely unfamiliar to me, well that just feels like something I wish I didn't have to experience. But I guess at the end of the day, it's not about me as it's not my house. And now I realize...it's no longer home to me either.
As I sift through the final round of things, slap together one last bunch of boxes and pile everything up by the door I ponder to myself what makes a house a home. I've never prided myself on having an overly good sense of home decor or design. I go into some of my friends places and I see their style and I think -- wow, I have nice things but this place looks fabulous. I think for me my approach to making a house feel like a home has always been the items that surround it. The corks piled up from the wine bottles drank over lots of laughs (and maybe some tears), the pictures everywhere of all the people who mean so much to you, the picture frames -- each one with its own story, and then of course the bigger things like the special throw pillows or the paintings hanging on the wall. It's those things that hold the memories and for me that make my place feel like home. So as I look around now and only see piles of boxes and empty walls I realize this apartment no longer feels like home. Just like my new one that sits empty right now doesn't either -- but in just a few days (or as soon as I'm able to unpack, ugh what a process) I know it will.
And as I go through my own emotional roller coaster about moving out of this apartment and all the memories and meaning its come to hold for me in nearly 3 years, I'm also having to go through a similar roller coaster with my childhood home. My Dad has invited his girlfriend (well, now finance) in to live in his home with him. And as a result, he's ripping out every piece of furniture and photo that was part of the home I knew as my mom's and filling it with all of his fiances things. Makes sense I guess. But that doesn't mean it's easy to swallow.
Ever since my mom was torn from our lives, that house -- the house we all grew up in and my Dad has spent 41 years in -- has been a place where we can go and be reminded of my mom and all the happy memories that were shared. Every holiday dinner, Hanukkah year after year, all of her special pictures and frames that surround each room, her greenhouse, the kitchen where she prepped countless meals, the pink living room chairs where she and I would share our tea and chat, and any other little thing that my mom picked out along the way to make the house a home. All of it will be gone. And as a result, once again, it's yet another part of my mom that's gone and we need to grieve all over again.
I've watched many of my childhood friends go through the process of helping their parents move out of their childhood home and it's quite emotional. So at first thought you might think well at least my dad's not selling the house. But actually, that's what I'd prefer. Because to watch a home that holds such meaning from my ENTIRE life so quickly vanish from everything I know it as into something that is completely unfamiliar to me, well that just feels like something I wish I didn't have to experience. But I guess at the end of the day, it's not about me as it's not my house. And now I realize...it's no longer home to me either.
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