Remember when you were young? You shone like the sun.
Today, I called the first phone number I ever memorized. No one answered. They were gone.
For months now, my mother has been in the process of selling her house. Our house. MY house. She's moving to California, y'see, and though she'll be back to visit a lot, she saw no sense in keeping a big empty house. So she bought a new house for my sister and her family to live in, in which she will stay on her frequent trips East. It makes sense. Her logic is sound. But I'm still heartbroken. I went over on Sunday to say goodbye to the house I grew up in. When I got there, I was greeted by Mom, her fiance, my sister, her husband, and their children, who I love nearly as much as their parents do. They were sitting around the kitchen table (as we always are) playing a board game. It was "Sorry". I flashed back to the million times I played the same game as a kid, in the same room, with many of the same people. As the game went on, I snuck up the back stairs to what used to be my sister's room. And also my room, and also my parents' room. We switched rooms a lot, is what I'm saying. I looked in the closet, and remembered snooping for Easter baskets and Christmas presents on the high shelf. Through the door into the adjoining room. My room. The room I first slept in, when I shared it with Jill's crib and tattled on her regularly for climbing out of it. I laid on the bed and stared at the ceiling and remembered the New Kids poster I had up there for way too long. I remembered listening to the same Eagles Greatest Hits cassette night after night. I sang "Seven Bridges Road" a little bit. I sat on the landing above the steps and remembered sitting there and listening to what was happening downstairs, the good and the bad. I jumped over the stairs, from one bedroom to another, just like I did the day we moved in, when I was 4. My parents' room. And also the room where I dance-acted to "Thriller". Right, sure, like you've never done it.
There are countless memories in each room of that house. In every square foot, something good, bad, happy, scary, sad, or some mixture of all of them happened to my family. After a while, and a terrible defeat at "Sorry", I sat on the porch steps. There are 13 of them. 2 stone, the rest wooden. I sat there, my 5 year old nephew on my lap, and thought about the future. Will Brian remember this house? These steps? Maybe, but maybe not. The future is now. His home is in New Hampshire, now. It's a good home. Plenty of room to run around, huge yard, a little farm up the street with chickens and ducks and stuff. He will count the stairs to the front door and find his own hiding places and dance-act to his own music. So will his sister. And there will be room for me there, too. Home is where the heart is, and all that.
So I went back inside and said goodnight to my mom. I yelled up the stairs at my sister for the last time. I got into my car and drove away and started sending text messages. Because who remembers phone numbers anymore anyway?
(As I wrote this, WBCN was ending their broadcast and becoming a new station. Everything's always changing.)
For months now, my mother has been in the process of selling her house. Our house. MY house. She's moving to California, y'see, and though she'll be back to visit a lot, she saw no sense in keeping a big empty house. So she bought a new house for my sister and her family to live in, in which she will stay on her frequent trips East. It makes sense. Her logic is sound. But I'm still heartbroken. I went over on Sunday to say goodbye to the house I grew up in. When I got there, I was greeted by Mom, her fiance, my sister, her husband, and their children, who I love nearly as much as their parents do. They were sitting around the kitchen table (as we always are) playing a board game. It was "Sorry". I flashed back to the million times I played the same game as a kid, in the same room, with many of the same people. As the game went on, I snuck up the back stairs to what used to be my sister's room. And also my room, and also my parents' room. We switched rooms a lot, is what I'm saying. I looked in the closet, and remembered snooping for Easter baskets and Christmas presents on the high shelf. Through the door into the adjoining room. My room. The room I first slept in, when I shared it with Jill's crib and tattled on her regularly for climbing out of it. I laid on the bed and stared at the ceiling and remembered the New Kids poster I had up there for way too long. I remembered listening to the same Eagles Greatest Hits cassette night after night. I sang "Seven Bridges Road" a little bit. I sat on the landing above the steps and remembered sitting there and listening to what was happening downstairs, the good and the bad. I jumped over the stairs, from one bedroom to another, just like I did the day we moved in, when I was 4. My parents' room. And also the room where I dance-acted to "Thriller". Right, sure, like you've never done it.
There are countless memories in each room of that house. In every square foot, something good, bad, happy, scary, sad, or some mixture of all of them happened to my family. After a while, and a terrible defeat at "Sorry", I sat on the porch steps. There are 13 of them. 2 stone, the rest wooden. I sat there, my 5 year old nephew on my lap, and thought about the future. Will Brian remember this house? These steps? Maybe, but maybe not. The future is now. His home is in New Hampshire, now. It's a good home. Plenty of room to run around, huge yard, a little farm up the street with chickens and ducks and stuff. He will count the stairs to the front door and find his own hiding places and dance-act to his own music. So will his sister. And there will be room for me there, too. Home is where the heart is, and all that.
So I went back inside and said goodnight to my mom. I yelled up the stairs at my sister for the last time. I got into my car and drove away and started sending text messages. Because who remembers phone numbers anymore anyway?
(As I wrote this, WBCN was ending their broadcast and becoming a new station. Everything's always changing.)