Houses and Homes

It’s a surreal experience to be leaving behind a place in which you lived. Leaving a dorm was one thing–I had time to prepare for the move. All of my friends had left for the Summer, and I was ready to be out. Leaving my first apartment was that same sort of thing; I didn’t really mind moving away, but mainly because I didn’t much like it there.

Leaving 1301 Lincoln Mall was something altogether different, however, and I can’t think of quite how to describe it. When I came into the empty apartment on Sunday after Randi had taken almost everything, I found it comical, but as the days went by, I found myself growing more and more melancholy. As mom and I were emptying everything today, I kept getting an odd feeling about the whole experience. I suppose it’s because this isn’t just a move across town; we’re actually leaving the continent for a state to which we’ve never been before. The first time we see Hawaii, we’ll be residents.

I had a place I really loved (well, except for that lady upstairs with her squeaky pipes), and I had to leave it. I know it’s something that everyone goes through, but this may be the first time I’ve felt such a parting so acutely. Sky Park, you will be missed.

But how do you define that difference between what is your home and what is just a house? When mom and I got back to Fremont tonight with all the luggage and such, I was struck by the sensation that my house isn’t really my home anymore. It didn’t make me sad, but it sure was a weird feeling. The place smelled different. The carpets were all torn up. Mom had a dog. All the upstairs doors were closed. My room had been stripped. I knew about all these changes a long time ago, but seeing them tonight struck a strange chord in me (a French augmented sixth, I think).

I used to run around the backyard all the time as a kid, and I knew the place like the back of my hand. I could navigate every inch of it in the dark without flinching an eyebrow, and did so any number of times while taking the dog out or just going out to take in the night. Mom built the deck after I left for college, though, and now the backyard is different. I know the deck is there when I pace the nighttime yard, but I can’t sense it. I have to feel along it for the steps in order to climb it. A big deal? No, not really, but it certainly makes one think.

I can’t quite put my finger on what I’m feeling–not depression, certainly. I think I’m just naturally contemplative as a result of being on the cusp of a major life change. What is your home? Is it a place where you live? Is it a place that invokes a certain emotion or other? Maybe I should read that Edwards book about home (Home, I think it’s called). That might explain the matter.