Second Chance Idol :: Week One :: What's Missing
Home.
They say it's where your heart is. Or where your family is. But I've never felt at home since my parents sold the house where I had spent twenty years of my life.
It was 2003, and I was in Philadelphia, so they decided there was no time like the present to sell the only home I'd ever known and move an hour West. They had their reasons, but I never got closure. I never got to say goodbye.
As such, I have a bit of an unhealthy fixation on my old house. Whenever I have a dream that takes place anywhere, it usually takes place in that house. My memories of every nook and cranny, of every pattern on the wallpaper, are so vivid and intense that I've often wondered if there is something legitimately wrong with me. After all, it's just a house. Just some wood and brick and mortar.
But it's so much more than that. To me, even to this day, it represents a life that I took for granted. That house is my anchor to peace. Within those walls, even when I was being an angsty teenager or pissed at my parents about one thing or another, I was at peace. It was my safe haven.
There has never been, and will never be, the perfect mixture of smells from the neighbor's garden wafting into my open bedroom window on a summer's night. There will never be the perfect pattern of light created by the rising sun in my East-facing bedroom.
A computer, a gift from my parents, sat in the corner of my room by the window. The desk was covered with cards and photos from my friends. A trashcan full of cream soda cans and jelly bean flavors that my best friend and I had deemed unacceptable sat nearby.
There will never again be the smell of fresh coffee and the sound of laughter from relatives long gone. On a Sunday morning, there will never again be the WMZQ Top Country Countdown blaring on the radio from the sunroom.
These were happier times as I padded downstairs, barefoot, excited to try and pick out each voice from the kitchen. Whether it was one of my Uncles, or my grandfather, it was always someone. I would turn that corner and be greeted with smiles and, often, the offer of a breakfast burrito brought by one of my late Uncles.
I will always have my memories. And, obviously, they are strong and unyielding. It would take a lot to make me forget the sights and smells of my home. It would be nearly impossible for me to forget all of the good times I've had there.
And yet, because that home now belongs to someone else and I will never again be allowed within the walls, I feel a sense of loss and longing that has never so much as ebbed after all of these years.
I have daydreams about pulling into the driveway, walking up to the door, and asking the current owners if I could possibly go take some charcoal prints of the initials written into the concrete of my dad's old workshop in the backyard. Many of my relatives who have passed since then helped him build that workshop, and when they poured the concrete floor they placed their initials just inside the door. I feel that it would be as valid of an excuse as any to set foot, however briefly, back on the property.
But I don't know if I have the guts, as they say. I don't know if I've reached that level of desperation.
But before too long, I may have to do something to get the closure I so desperately need. Especially before I finally leave Virginia behind, for good this time.
They say it's where your heart is. Or where your family is. But I've never felt at home since my parents sold the house where I had spent twenty years of my life.
It was 2003, and I was in Philadelphia, so they decided there was no time like the present to sell the only home I'd ever known and move an hour West. They had their reasons, but I never got closure. I never got to say goodbye.
As such, I have a bit of an unhealthy fixation on my old house. Whenever I have a dream that takes place anywhere, it usually takes place in that house. My memories of every nook and cranny, of every pattern on the wallpaper, are so vivid and intense that I've often wondered if there is something legitimately wrong with me. After all, it's just a house. Just some wood and brick and mortar.
But it's so much more than that. To me, even to this day, it represents a life that I took for granted. That house is my anchor to peace. Within those walls, even when I was being an angsty teenager or pissed at my parents about one thing or another, I was at peace. It was my safe haven.
There has never been, and will never be, the perfect mixture of smells from the neighbor's garden wafting into my open bedroom window on a summer's night. There will never be the perfect pattern of light created by the rising sun in my East-facing bedroom.
A computer, a gift from my parents, sat in the corner of my room by the window. The desk was covered with cards and photos from my friends. A trashcan full of cream soda cans and jelly bean flavors that my best friend and I had deemed unacceptable sat nearby.
There will never again be the smell of fresh coffee and the sound of laughter from relatives long gone. On a Sunday morning, there will never again be the WMZQ Top Country Countdown blaring on the radio from the sunroom.
These were happier times as I padded downstairs, barefoot, excited to try and pick out each voice from the kitchen. Whether it was one of my Uncles, or my grandfather, it was always someone. I would turn that corner and be greeted with smiles and, often, the offer of a breakfast burrito brought by one of my late Uncles.
I will always have my memories. And, obviously, they are strong and unyielding. It would take a lot to make me forget the sights and smells of my home. It would be nearly impossible for me to forget all of the good times I've had there.
And yet, because that home now belongs to someone else and I will never again be allowed within the walls, I feel a sense of loss and longing that has never so much as ebbed after all of these years.
I have daydreams about pulling into the driveway, walking up to the door, and asking the current owners if I could possibly go take some charcoal prints of the initials written into the concrete of my dad's old workshop in the backyard. Many of my relatives who have passed since then helped him build that workshop, and when they poured the concrete floor they placed their initials just inside the door. I feel that it would be as valid of an excuse as any to set foot, however briefly, back on the property.
But I don't know if I have the guts, as they say. I don't know if I've reached that level of desperation.
But before too long, I may have to do something to get the closure I so desperately need. Especially before I finally leave Virginia behind, for good this time.