Going Home

Today would have been my Dad's 86th birthday, and tomorrow is the 4 month anniversary of his death.  Both dates are hard to believe.


I am lucky in one thing; I can go home to their house every day, to what was my grandparent's house.  I can eat lunch or make coffee, lie down in my old room, listen to my old records.  Eventually, it will be my home again.  There is a particular peace there, and comfort.  As long as I can be there, they aren't really gone.


We all need a place of peace, a room of our own, as Woolf wrote.  It's good to look at the photos that trigger memories, and to drink coffee out of cups that my mother bought when I was still in high school.


It's nice to see t he light switch plate that says "Ellen's' Room" and to remember where it came from. What triggers memories for you--it can be a smell, or making a recipe, or maybe it's the time of year.  We did our share for St. Pat's, and my mother loved all holidays.  We always had a shamrock or two around, we made it to a parade once in a while, whatever it took.


Now, I'm in the autumn of my life, and while it's hard to fathom that I'm this old, I go back to that house, where the TV is in the same place it's been for over 60 years, where my birthday parties were held, where my heart broke and healed, and where my mother planted flowers.