I’m lying in my bed… or I guess the bed in my old bedroom… on the last night I’ll ever spend in my mother’s house.
I have been desperate to leave all week but now that I’m almost going home, I feel a growing hole.
Never again will I walk into the house and find the cheese drawer in the fridge stocked with my favorites. The rack of lamb I’m taking from the freezer is the last that will ever be bought with plans of saving it for a surprise special dinner just for me.
The pictures are off the walls. The crystal and china are packed. The books all gone.
I think it is the lack of books that contributes the most to that empty feeling. Not one cookbook graces the shelves in the kitchen… unheard of while my parents were alive. The novels were taken away days ago for charity fundraisers.
Over the years my parents lived in many houses but, with the possible exception of their first, it is this house that was most ‘theirs’. The family cat is buried by the pond that was my father’s dream, each piece of furniture and window handing was handpicked by my mother and every corner of the kitchen was designed to suit the needs of two fantastic cooks.
Letting go is suddenly difficult.
I need to go home… I need to resume my life and let The Husband off the hook after weeks of front line parenting (thanks honey – you are amazing). I need to be with my kids.
Yet, despite all that I feel suddenly rooted to this spot… like the snow storms of the past two days have conspired to keep me here just a little bit longer.
Going home will mean all of this is really real.
Going home means I can’t ever come back… not to my mom’s house at least. It will be an empty shell with a few of her belongings left… all the good stuff cleared out.
Going home means she is really dead and I’m not sure I’m ready to admit that to myself.