Time

I’m at my mother’s house this week, our house, helping her pack up and move into an apartment.  It’s not a desperate situation.  She’s not old.  She’s not going into the home or anything.  The woman goes to aerobics three times a week and volunteers.  She swings her grandson out of his playpen on her way to the kitchen to cook for a crowd and entertain them at the same time.  The thing is, we would like to see more of her and the responsibilities of taking care of a house eat up a lot of her time.  Leaving here will give her so much freedom.

If only we didn’t have to abandon so much history.  The house is full things that spark fond memories.  The windowsill in the kitchen is still cluttered with Dad’s pens for the crossword.  The bedroom in the basement, a bastion for me and my siblings as teenagers, boasts a door covered with graffiti from all three former occupants and their friends.  There’s still a stool in the nook in the kitchen where we sat to talk on the phone.  I can remember mom sitting there every night to talk to my Nanny, her mother.  The Christmas tree was always in the front window in the living room…well, except for that one year that it fell down.

I will miss so much about this house.  The back porch window allows for an expansive view of the sunset shortly followed by the big dipper.  You can see the fireworks on Canada Day from the front yard.  The left side of the couch in the living room is the perfect place to sit and read.  To sit in the chair by the kitchen window with a glass of wine talking to mom is my idea of a perfect evening.

It will be strange to have someone else live in the house.  It will be sad to drive by and tell my son that Nana used to live there.  That’s where mommy grew up.  What won’t be sad is getting to Nana’s apartment and having her give him a hug.  That’s what really matters right?   sigh...