I’m headed to my parents house this weekend. Dad just retired a few weeks ago, and I think his constant presence is starting to irritate Mom. She “just wasn’t prepared for him to be there all the time,” she told me recently. She’s really funny sometimes.
I’ll stay in my old room, the one up the stairs, second door on the left. It’s kind of hard to miss, it being the only room in the house with with Backstreet Boys wallpaper. I like that they never turned it into an office or a soon-forgotten exercise studio. It’s the best feeling to come into this room and regress to a time where life’s biggest stressor was whether some boy thought I was pretty or not.
(Whether or not some boy thinks I’m pretty is still a rather big stressor.)
Lying in my lumpy twin bed, I will listen to the sounds of the house. I always feel safe knowing my mom and dad are somewhere close, doing whatever people of their years and experiences consider important to do with their time.
The weekend could be moderately exciting or utterly normal. We may take the boat out for a spin, or we may simply sit on the porch together and read, pausing now and again to acknowledge each other’s company.
I’m quite excited. The older I become, the more I realize that home is more than a place; home is a feeling. And when I walk in the door, that feeling allows me to put a pin in my “adult life,” and keep it there until I leave the driveway. My parents feed me and clothe me and I am lulled into a sleepy sense of invicibility. I’m a kid again. I’m their kid.
——
My fantasies are heartbreaking.
