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Last Sunday my wife and I stopped by the cemetery to spend a few quiet moments with my Dad
seeing it was Father’s Day.
It was a sun-shiny day with puffy white clouds dotting an iridescent indigo sky and a gentle breeze that easily moved the American flag marking my father’s eternal place in the world.
We watered the royal purple petunias that my sister got for the grave and sat for a spell.
Cemetery silence is like no other.
It traps me in my own thoughts as I ‘talk’ to Dad while trying to figure out just what the hell is going on in my life.
Like he will just pop out of nowhere and answer me.
In a perfect world, as I always say.
I can’t remember the last Father’s Day that I spent with the man when he was of sane mind.
That bothered me last Sunday, a bit more than usual.
Maybe my daily commute to Boston and endless hours on the merry-go-round/cheese wheel that we call life has sucked the remembering marrow out of too many bones in my body.
I told him, “I’m tired, Dad. And I miss you. And I want to be 10 years old again,” as the thoughts of oiling my old Rawlings baseball glove for the ultimate game of ‘Catch’ rolled around my head.
It was total vindication of the good old days that sat heavy in my heart.
Every visit to see my Mom and Dad is sentimental in some way.
Maybe it’s how I’m wired, I don’t know.
I kissed my palm and touched the names of both Walter and Virginia, all that’s physically left of them.
I wanted to just drive by the old neighborhood for shits and giggles and made my way towards my old house.
I turned down Harvard Street driving past all the old neighbors; the Gilbert’s, the Masterson’s, the Pelletier’s, the Pinard’s and on and on.
The fields I once played on were totally overgrown with brush and trees and sadly no sign of my once significant presence.
We came back up Harvard Street and I looked at the house I’d grown up in.
There was no one home and there were pastel yellow signs taped on the front and back door that said, “NO TRESPASSING!”
I pulled my SUV into the driveway and Pamela and I got out to survey the multiple broken windows and damage.
The place that was once my ‘home’ was devastated.
Mold was eating its way throughout the entire exterior.
It was raped of its innocence and simple beauty.
It was a crime scene of epic proportions.
I was crying inside as I peered into the windows of rooms that held so many good memories for me now destroyed by people that just didn’t give a shit; holes in walls, carpets that looked a million years old and covered with dirt and soot.
It was disgusting.
The animals living here were lower than assholes.
If they were standing right in front of me I would say that to their hairy faces.
I was angry and sadder than I had been when I sold the house.
What would make someone do this to a place called home?
I was speechless.
What really hurt was that the window in what used to be my bedroom was shattered, she-doo-bee-doop, shattered, shattered.
Really?
I wish I had a great ‘tie it all up in a bow’ ending for this story but I don’t.
My old house is very sad.
And I can’t blame her.
It makes me even sadder because there’s nothing that I can do.
If my arms were big enough, I would have given her a hug.
But it’s too late for that.
The damage is already done.
And I’ll remain shattered . . .
Home is where the heart is, my friend…I am so sad for your pain. I know your home was a place of joy and comfort. You carry on the spirit and tradition of what home is all about in your family now. It’s not the house nor the stuff. It’s in the hearts, always. Home lives through the memories and the goodness of our beings in our souls. Your parents are with you in spirit. Sending good energy your way. Sweet dreams tonight, my friend. Thank you for sharing your inner self xo
Home is definitely where the heart is which is why mine was broken last Sunday.
It was abuse of something I loved and although the house is still standing memories only get me so far.
Thanks so much for the visit.
~m
Houses and bodies are merely the vessels provided to us for our mortal time on this earth.
Your childhood home is with your Mum and Dad…in your heart and memories.
They may be gone physically {or in this case changed beyond belief} but they exist within you. What safer place for them?
Do I feel the pain you feel at seeing the place as it is? Yes I do, the same as I feel your pain when you see their graves, but as they are now is not what their lives were about anymore than where they lived was.
My Dad was a great one for life goes on, and he was right.
Cry your tears for what it is now and then smile for what it truly was my friend….
Wonderful post. One that makes me feel like I’ve come back to the place that entranced me so many years ago.
One where you open your heart and soul, and where your words speak to me.
As sad a place as this post came from, it’s still just wonderful
I’m going to have to choose to smile for what was as it will never be the same again.
As they say, “Everything must change,” and “Life must go on.”
While I agree with both sentiments it’s the awful end result that put a knife my heart.
Can’t thank you enough for the visit.
And yes, I agree this was the kind of story I used to write. Out of the bad came something good.
Thank you for stopping by and taking the time to leave such a wonderful comment.
hugs,
~m
ouch. sending a hug or a dozen. i know it would hurt like hell. to the core. but go back to the memories. they are still good. they are real. they are what you need. they made you.
Ouch is right, DF.
You should have seen the place.
Thank God for memories.
If my Mom and Dad were still alive they would be horrified.
I’m hoping the next people that move in put some much needed TLC into the place.
And yeah, hug was accepted.
Thanks, kiddo. You’re a peach.
~m
Hey! I still drive by two houses – the one where I grew up and my grandparents’ in the next town over. ‘My’ house is still very nice – probably better than it ever was. My grandparents’ has changed a little, but this Spring the camellia bush was COVERED in big blooms! I cringe when I think about what the inside might look like. Sometimes I wonder if it would be possible to buy the house and gather up all the furniture to put it back the way it was.
I’ve realized just how impressionable children are. Their child-lives remain throughout their whole life, through all the twists and turns.
Thanks for writing!
you are a lucky lady, Lolly.
I encountered a train wreck of epic proportions, sadly.
And as far as ‘putting things back to the way they were’ I can only say
in a perfect world . . .
So nice to hear from you.
~m
I would be devastated if I went back to my childhood home and found it in disrepair. I’m so sorry to hear this happened to you.
Thanks so much for stopping by, PT.
And yeah, it was horrific.
I can’t imagine the kind of animals that were living there.
The place deserved so much better.
I’m hoping to drive by some future Sunday and see that someone has finally given the place the TLC it is now ion desperate need of.
Thanks again for the visit.
~m
Thanks so much for stopping by, PT.
And yeah, it was horrific.
I can’t imagine the kind of animals that were living there.
The place deserved so much better.
I’m hoping to drive by some future Sunday and see that someone has finally given the place the TLC it is now ion desperate need of.
Thanks again for the visit.
~m