When we built our house next to the house I grew up in, both my parents were alive and it seemed like the ultimate wonderful spot to raise their grandchildren. I was delighted with my new house, and I enjoyed going next door to visit frequently.
Then my dad died, and all I wanted to do was run; there were days that it took all my self control not to get in the car and take off for somewhere. Anywhere.
That was almost 7 years ago, and I still don’t like to go next door any more. My mom wants me/us there more often, and says so, but I have to force myself, and I don’t make that short walk as often as I should. I also don’t really want to live here any more; as I’ve said before, I’d love to live by water. It’s as if when my dad died, he took with him my purpose for building a house in an ordinary subdivision in an ordinary town in the ordinary state of Indiana. And now I can’t move, because my mom is here, and I’m an only child and the parent of her only grandchildren. Guilt keeps me tethered to this house and this place.
Today, my daughter brought home a friend who hasn’t been here before. When they walked in the door, the first words out of her friend’s mouth were, “You have a beautiful house!”
I suppose it is. I like the colors on the walls; I planted all the flowers outside, and I love the trees. I just wish I wanted to live here.