Each morning these days, I creep out of bed and poke my head into my parents' room. I hope that they're still asleep. Dad needs as much rest as he can get, and I need some peace and quiet. The television is always on inside the house, and the noise is irritating me at my very core. I'm reminded of my grandparents house, the 1950s ranch with the oval Formica kitchen table and the antenna television. I remember the noise then, I hear the noise now, and I crave those temporary moments (that are few and far between here) when the only sounds are the hum of the refrigerator and the chirp of the early bird. It's the only time I find myself "at home" so to speak.
That says something, I think. That even when I'm at home, I'm not really at home. Because my home is no longer here, and to be truthful, it never was.
I only spent four years in this house and that was four years too long, in my opinion. Of course, those years were full of normal teenage angst, some of which was probably only perceived by me. But this town, this house, this neighborhood...they've been old for years. Old, downtrodden, and depressing. And as I sit here during the day with my kids and their cousins, I realize that we've infused life into the place, but probably only temporarily.
Temporary is the word of the day around here, it seems. Temporary happiness. Temporary memories. Temporary visits. If I think too much about that word, I might get weepy. So instead, I'll focus on something else, like the fact that we just celebrated my niece's third birthday and that the cousins were able to be with one another for more days than they ever expected. Because thankfully, as much trouble as the individuals can be, this family is not temporary.