I'm home. I've never been as conscious, as awake, as sober when I'm home as I am now. I am tired. Exhausted. I've driven home -to Massachusetts- and it has taken me about 3 days to rest up. I'm still tired though. I feel as though My journey here was smooth. I drove to D.C. and stayed overnight with my nephew, napping for 4 hours. And then I continued. Here.
I look around Boston, the Dorchester area and it seems that nothing has changed much. Except that the city, the streets look cleaner. The demographics has changed slightly.The neighborhoods are more diverse than before. But, then the city has always been diverse. Grove Hall has a Dunkin Donuts. Not as many buildings are boarded up and left to rot off their foundations like before.
My brother, after ten years was able to rescue my grandmother's house after it was sold. By my aunt and uncle to people who were not able to pay the mortgage. My brother is in the process of renovating it. It had been gutted by a fire a couple of years ago. It doesn't look exactly the same inside, but it is still beautiful. As I walk into the yard, I open the gate, my mouth gapes open. So many memories.
Memories.
Visions of Nana in the front yard tending to her flowers. Or, sitting on the porch with friends in the summer. As I enter the enclosed porch, the smell of dinner cooking and seeing the windows steamed from the heat in the kitchen. Or, watching Nana can her vegetables from the fall harvest of her garden or make homemade soap in a huge metal tub.
Mother upstairs in her room, glasses hanging off her nose while she reads the bible. Offering various snacks from the health food store and watching old movies on the tv. I loved mother's room. It reminded me of an old attic. A flea market. I would walk around her room and just look at things. Pick things up and put them down. I used to tell her how much I loved her room because it had so many things in it. She would just laugh.
Holiday gatherings with family and friends that we usually do not see throughout the year. Or had not seen for many years.
Sooooo many memories.
The bathrooms have the original tiles. The main bathroom is black and white. The tiles are in a parquet pattern and black and white. The bottom 1/2 bath...washroom is pink and black. and much of the original wood and mouldings remain.
I look out the back door and see that the yard is still the same. No flowers though and new trees, fruit trees have sprung up in places where there was at first one...then none. My eyes navigate the layout to look for the blueberry bush...
When we were kids, we would get to the gate and swing it open and catapult to the back. The clinking of the latch echoes in my mind along with the laughter and breathlessness, that I had upon reaching the backyard. Racing towards the swings, my sisters and I would sometimes fight about who was to swing first. I don't remember who always won. I don't even remember who won most. I do remember though, that we'd end up taking turns.
The nursery school, now boarded up. Memories. Some good, some not so good. Nevertheless, it is good to have memories.
It's good to be home. I've never appreciated home as much as I do now. "Home" has a new meaning. Home is not only where the heart is. It's where your head is too. Where you feel most loved at. The place where you can take your socks off and put your feet up and know that you have a roof over your head and where you can eat and have family and friends and know who you are. It's that place that you can go a long way from for a long time come back to and still feel familiar. It's that place where you know you belong.
I'm home.
I look around Boston, the Dorchester area and it seems that nothing has changed much. Except that the city, the streets look cleaner. The demographics has changed slightly.The neighborhoods are more diverse than before. But, then the city has always been diverse. Grove Hall has a Dunkin Donuts. Not as many buildings are boarded up and left to rot off their foundations like before.
My brother, after ten years was able to rescue my grandmother's house after it was sold. By my aunt and uncle to people who were not able to pay the mortgage. My brother is in the process of renovating it. It had been gutted by a fire a couple of years ago. It doesn't look exactly the same inside, but it is still beautiful. As I walk into the yard, I open the gate, my mouth gapes open. So many memories.
Memories.
Visions of Nana in the front yard tending to her flowers. Or, sitting on the porch with friends in the summer. As I enter the enclosed porch, the smell of dinner cooking and seeing the windows steamed from the heat in the kitchen. Or, watching Nana can her vegetables from the fall harvest of her garden or make homemade soap in a huge metal tub.
Mother upstairs in her room, glasses hanging off her nose while she reads the bible. Offering various snacks from the health food store and watching old movies on the tv. I loved mother's room. It reminded me of an old attic. A flea market. I would walk around her room and just look at things. Pick things up and put them down. I used to tell her how much I loved her room because it had so many things in it. She would just laugh.
Holiday gatherings with family and friends that we usually do not see throughout the year. Or had not seen for many years.
Sooooo many memories.
The bathrooms have the original tiles. The main bathroom is black and white. The tiles are in a parquet pattern and black and white. The bottom 1/2 bath...washroom is pink and black. and much of the original wood and mouldings remain.
I look out the back door and see that the yard is still the same. No flowers though and new trees, fruit trees have sprung up in places where there was at first one...then none. My eyes navigate the layout to look for the blueberry bush...
When we were kids, we would get to the gate and swing it open and catapult to the back. The clinking of the latch echoes in my mind along with the laughter and breathlessness, that I had upon reaching the backyard. Racing towards the swings, my sisters and I would sometimes fight about who was to swing first. I don't remember who always won. I don't even remember who won most. I do remember though, that we'd end up taking turns.
The nursery school, now boarded up. Memories. Some good, some not so good. Nevertheless, it is good to have memories.
It's good to be home. I've never appreciated home as much as I do now. "Home" has a new meaning. Home is not only where the heart is. It's where your head is too. Where you feel most loved at. The place where you can take your socks off and put your feet up and know that you have a roof over your head and where you can eat and have family and friends and know who you are. It's that place that you can go a long way from for a long time come back to and still feel familiar. It's that place where you know you belong.
I'm home.
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