You Can’t Go Home Again, Mostly

At the tender age of 19 I moved to the Megecity, the big smoke, Hollywood North, Tdot, Trono. But, I just call it the City. It’s Canada’s largest city, so why would I call it anything else? My Pappa B gets on my case for using such non-specific terms. Stating: It’s not the only city in Ontario, and it’s not the closest city to where he lives, plus he just likes getting on people’s case. This week finds me at my Parent’s house, being chased by the Little Fella- a new addition to our fam-damly. And as I stretch out in my childhood double bed…alone. I miss my Hubby and Jill Bean. Both sleep disrupters were left in the city, as I traveled over hill and dale to visit my ‘rents. It is staring up at the ceiling fan with the chain I remember breaking that I realized, this is not my beautiful house. How did I get here?

Letting the days go by. That’s how this house transformed from childhood sanctuary and dark teenage den to almost relaxing holiday retreat. This bedroom is familiar, but the one I knew is hidden under a coat of paint. Gone is the sea foam green with the dancing dolphin border where I dreamt of being a grown up. Where I played with my Barbies, Jem dolls and read Christopher Pike by flashlight. I didn’t have a phone in my room. All my conversations happened attached by a twisted cord to the kitchen wall. Sitting at the dinner table. Watching movies in the down down; a subterranean dwelling with the constant dehumidifier hum. I see these bookmarks in the stories that make up who I’ve become. Dents, dings and scars from the past covered, filled in and forgotten. My brother’s room has been transformed into a den…Sucker. I mean, at least my room is still for sleep and dreaming. But, this house feels like an impersonator. It’s almost as if the house I grew up witnessed something horrible and had to enter the witness protection program. It’s the same, but not somehow.

The little things that make a house a home are intangible. The way your reading lamp switch is reachable from lying down in bed. The way your surround sound speakers point to your favourite seat on the sofa. The water pressure. Remember leasing your first apartment? You had no idea what amenities you wanted, needed and or even liked. Now, my lease list is a mile long. I love my Parents, though I think I finally understand why they’ve wanted to downsize for so long. Their house is too much home for 2 people. I had always hoped that this address would be where my babies birthday cards came from but who can wait for indecisive me? It’s a perfect family house for the holidays. Tumbling over 3 generations of warped relatives. But I guess that’s what hotels are for. As for my visit to Chez Folks? My Trip Advisor review would say: The room service is slow. There is no pool or hot tub. But the staff are lovely.

You Can’t Go Home Again, Mostly

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