A House and a Home

On Living Alone

It’s not supposed to be an easy transition. No one said it was going to be easy. But I was expecting it to be much more fun that it actually started out to be. It involved a lot of grown-up stuff, to tell the truth. There was the thing about responsibilities, and money, and decorating, and mix-and-matching and setting some ground rules on what went on in my new humble pad.

Still, I like it. It’s different but I like it. It’ll take some getting use to, you know. The fact that when I wake up, I won’t hear my baby nephew crying, or I don’t hear my dad shuffling downstairs, or see my sister lying in the other bed, her face covered with her beloved pillow.

Yeah, it’ll definitely take some getting use to.



On Leaving The House I Grew Up In

We’d been hankering for it for around 8 years to my dad --- that we didn’t need that big a house, that we were better off just selling it and starting fresh with a new, smaller, more manageable house. Still, when you leave something you’re used to all your life, it’s difficult. I had lived there for as long as I could remember, and it was just right that there was some depression and frustration when we sold it and finally moved to a smaller rented apartment. I don’t think anyone noticed, apart from my close friends to whom I confided. It was tough, but I had to keep a brave face for my family, especially for my dad.

I passed the house around a month after we left it, and it was being lived in by caretakers (presumably of the lady that bought it). I wanted to run up and tell them to get their stinky asses away from our home, but I couldn’t, The urge was enormous but I fought it. And won. Still felt sucky after it, though.

Now, all I have are pictures and memories of that old house. Of my joys, fears, frustrations, anger, bitterness, realizations, and drama in there. I can only hope it’s enough.