Taken from a 2014 journal entry:
This morning I had a dream. My back yard was full of translucent water on a warm, cloudless day. Myself and others were floating in the water, my little dog on a tiny inflatable, a few friends, all laughing away. As I meandered, sloshed along by the nuzzling waves created by their play, I looked to the house behind me.
It’s supposed to be different than this. I’m supposed to be cleaning out my parents’ house, my childhood home, years from now, after I have my own home to bring my share of things. I’m supposed to have siblings to divvy it all with, making the amount more bearable as we fight over this knick knack and that. Reminding each other of forgotten memories, laughing at shared ones.
Finding closure with each one, giving each piece its proper respect, before getting packed away again, for another attic, a garbage dump, a charity. Some items make their way onto descendants’ mantles or living room tables, but how is that supposed to work for me?
This is my only home. Am I supposed to change it all, like dad had done when my mom passed, erasing her touch and memory? Am I to do that to my father too, stating seeing it all is ‘too much’? I’m sure I’m supposed to change things some, but how much or little I don’t know. And there is so much; how am I supposed to find closure, when my clouded mind is the only one holding memories? How many pieces full of happiness will go without last rites, because I can’t remember? I’m supposed to have a place to come back to, a place where my parents keep my cherished rubbish begrudgingly, tucked away for when I settle down and find my home. I’m supposed to have to come back years from now, struggling over whether the childhood home should be sold right away, or if I should move back.
In the end I will not be able to do the things I knew I was supposed to do. But in its own way, that is a sort of freedom.