No Going Home Again

We (my brother, sister, and I) recently put my mother's house up for sale. The estate issues are coming to a close and it seemed like the time had come to deal with the house. As our good fortune would have it, the folks who looked at the house the second day it was on the market made us an offer. We will be closing on the house this Friday. Part of me feels blessed that it went so quickly and smoothly especially in light of our country's current economic climate. Another part of me is saddened by the thought that my mother's house will no longer be there for me. Even though we are coming up on a year since my mother's death and she had not really lived in the house much over her two year illness, the existence of the house, with her things still in it, comforted me through many of the hardships of the last few years. It was always the hope of my mom coming home that kept all of us going.

This past weekend we all met at the house to clean it out. I was dreading the experience. I knew that at the end of the day, I would walk out of that house - it empty of any evidence that my mother or grandmother had lived there for 21 years. It would never be mine to return to again. I was prepared to deal with how tough saying goodbye would be. What caught me off guard was the rush of feelings and memories that flooded me on the drive down. I recalled specific memories of going home again at different stages of my life.

There was the young college girl driving the old, but reliable clunker home from Atlanta. She would have rather been spending Spring Break with her friends, but could not stand to hear the disappointment in her parents' voices when she suggested not coming home between quarters.

There was the young woman with her new husband. They are driving a two-seater convertible from Buffalo. She doesn't have a care in the world. Her whole life is yet to be determined. Everything and anything is still possible.

There was the young mother driving the mini-van with the family buckled inside. The van is filled with music and singing and laughter. The kids are so excited about seeing Nana and Gigi. The young mother anticipates how much she will enjoy seeing her mother and grandmother interact with her children.

There is the older mother driving the mini-van filled to the brim with kids. She is nervous and worried and stressed. She is home for only weeks with her Ethiopian children who speak very little English. She is driving down to help her mother recover from surgery. She can't believe the timing of things. She doubts she can keep it all together. She manages somehow albeit, not always with the grace and composure she should.

There is the new (older) mother who is two weeks postpartum, hoping she gets home in time to meet one of her mother's last requests - to hold her new grandson. This is the same mother who at three weeks postpartum drives down again to sit in a hospice room with her dying mother and her newborn. She is overwhelmed with the similarities of their situations. Both helpless. Both in need of so much attention and love. She is aware of the paradox too - one taking his first breaths of life, the other taking her final breaths of life. This is the same mother who at four weeks postpartum drives down again to attend her mother's funeral.

As these memories followed one behind the other, I was overcome with emotion. I turned up the music, the kids sang and talked and laughed. I put on my sunglasses and let the tears roll down my cheeks. I couldn't help but feel the passage of time as swift and one-way. It reminds me of lyrics from two songs that played in the car that morning.

One is John Mayer's "Stop This Train":

Stop this train
I wanna get off
And go home again
I can't take the speed it's moving in
I know I can't
But honestly, won't someone stop this train?

Don't know how else to say it
Don't want to see my parents go
One generation's length away
From fighting life out on my own

And Anna Nalick's "Breathe (2 am)":

'Cause you can't jump the track, we're like cars on a cable
And life's like an hourglass, glued to the table
No one can find the rewind button, girl.
So cradle your head in your hands
And breathe... just breathe,
Oh breathe, just breathe


I had a good cry and felt much better. The rest of day went well. My aunt and uncle, my brother, my sister and her husband, as well as my family set about the task at hand. We talked and joked and reminisced as we worked. We got everything done. The time to leave was upon me.

The leaving was as difficult as I had anticipated. Noodle12 and I made one last walk through the house. As we did so, we opened every closet and cabinet hoping for some bit of their things that we might have missed. Some reason to stay. There was nothing. We had been thorough. The only evidence of this having been their home, was the smell of my grandmother's perfume that still permeated her now empty closet. As the smell enveloped us, smiles flashed across our faces followed by the sting of tears in our eyes. It was so hard to force ourselves out of the front door, to hear the final click of the lock, to know "our" house key lay on the counter in the kitchen, and to know there will be no going home again.