Leaving Home Behind

Me on the front steps of my old house.

The shadows of aspen, pine, and evergreen trees danced in the wind, casting alternating curtains of light and darkness across the brick house standing before me.  Nestled into a grove of towering trees and flourishing plants, this house had been my home for the past eighteen years, acting as an omniscient guardian, watching me grow year after year.  The brick archway encircling the front entrance, the white faded flower boxes, the wooden tiers enclosing the countless flower beds; these sights had always welcomed me home throughout my childhood, but now, I was forced to say goodbye.  I would never again sit on the front steps as my mom took my picture for the first day of school.  I would never again turn the wobbly brass doorknob and walk into the cramped entryway, dodging the stray shoes littering the narrow doorway.  I would never again run up and down, up and down, up and down the stairs of the split level house.  The matted brown carpet, a remnant of the 70s, would never touch the soles of my feet; I would never sled down the grassy slopes of the backyard; I would never spend fall afternoons raking the countless leaves which drifted down to the yellowing grass yard.  The experiences which defined my childhood would be left behind as we slammed shut the door of our moving truck and drove away one final time.

My Mom insisted that our new house was perfect; in my opinion, that perfection was the problem.  It was perfect.  It was in a perfect suburban neighborhood, surrounded by armies of houses with similar roofs, similar colors, and similar layouts.  Each lawn was perfectly manicured, sparsely scattered with newly planted trees, landscaped without character or emotion.  Inside, the floors were mainly hardwood, cold and barren compared to the unique and plush carpeting of our old house.  The windows opened with ease, not needing a prop to keep open, not need a shove to slam close.  The foyer’s ceilings reached to the second floor, flooding the entryway with light.  A closet for shoes, a pantry for food, an alcove for the piano; home features previously unknown to me in my outdated childhood home.  The sight of the hot tub gazebo nauseated me, making me yearn for the natural simplicity of my old yard.  I was bothered that my brothers and I each had our own rooms; the house was already beginning to divide and separate my family.  An intercom system had been installed for easy communication across the big house, making it unnecessary to interact with one another face to face. 

This new house, updated with all the latest features, appeared cold and indifferent. Every day of my life, my old house had welcomed me with old, weathered arms, providing me with a place of comfort and familiarity.  This new home would never embrace me or my family; it was only stucco walls and slabs of cement.  My old house, constructed with care, built brick by brick emanated personality; this new structure emitted synthetic remoteness.  Fighting back tears, I stepped into the cab of our truck, prepared to look back in the review mirror for the last time, resenting my Mom and Dad, the people who had betrayed our home despite everything it had given us.  As I watched my house disappear in the glassy mirror, I resolved to never be happy in this new house, a final gesture of affection towards the receding house that would always remain my true home. 

When we reached the new house, my parents told me my room would be in the basement.  Viewing this as yet another reminder of the coldness of this impersonal structure, I grabbed the box of my most treasured possessions and trudged down to the dungeon.  The stairway was long, descending into ominous darkness.  Not knowing where the light switches were in this new place, I felt along the walls to guide myself down to my room.  Finding the doorway with my hand, I turned the knob, preparing myself to enter the cell that would be my bedroom.  Making contact with the lightswtich, I flipped the switch up, illuminating the room with light. Instead of empty prison walls, the walls were painted a bright sunny yellow, angled into odd shapes to create protruding corners and small alcoves.  My room broke the uniformity of the house, a bright beacon of individuality in a house of overwhelming similarity.  Though empty, this room revealed potential; potential for personality, and comfort; potential for warmth and hominess despite the house’s cold exterior.  The yellow walls began to melt my resentment and bitterness; while it was unlikely, maybe, just maybe, this place could eventually be home.