A House and A Home

The sunlight was warm and chilled on the wind this day that I stared out the window of the ghetto red car I rode in. I felt the cool airy breeze through my fingers as I lazily kept my hand out the window. I had my head resting against the head rest of the chair as I looked up into the blue sky that so deeply contrasted the deep green canopy of the neighborhood trees. It's a beautiful and precious thing to behold these car moments. I thought back on the house that I had just come from and a sadness swelled deep within my heart.

It's the simple pleasures in life that send a yearning within me. For me its the scent of the cut grass on the lawn, the smell of a well used garage with tools hanging on the walls. It is the lovely and well visited kitchen with its pots and pans that have to be at least ten years old. It's the couch in the basement, that is otherwise known as the family room. It's these rare gifts that for many is taken for granted that cause me the deepest of sadness and leave me wanting.

The laughter of a family is a precious gift, and those that have that precious gift don't realize how beautiful it really is. This car ride down the neighborhood road, with all its houses and homes. It with it's mail man, joggers, and trampolines is a place that holds warmth and security. It's a fond memory of what once was, before it all came crashing down. I lost a house and a home on that day. It was a home that may not have been the warmest, it may not have been the most functional, or even the grandest of places, but it was where the reality of my parents and siblings existed. It was before the separation, and before the ripping of those sacred threads. If it is anything, it is now just a fond memory.

Even if it wasn't the warmest of homes, when there is no home at all it is just as heartbreaking. My mother says a home is where the family is. I agree with her, but there is something so warm about walking onto the porch of a house you grew up in. There is something so lovely about sharing dinner on holidays not with half the family but as a whole unit. . . It is the way it should be. Do I have these car moments often? Do I cry every time I see a neighborhood? No, but its the unexpected moments, when I am just living life that I find myself mourning for something that can never be again. It seems like a cruel injustice, but an injustice that must continually be dealt with each breath that I breath.

The little girl on her bike is riding on her driveway, the man is jogging with his wife on the sidewalk as we pass, the elderly lady is watering her roses. Then there is me. There is me, an impostor that is riding in this neighborhood. I came to visit a friend. Exiting from this world that is no longer my own. Into another world where apartments, unpaid bills, sadness and torn families wait. Where words lose their luster and life seems dimmer. It's dramatic and over emphasized in my heart I realize but it doesn't change the fact that it is there.

The street has come to an end and the moment has passed. We turn right onto the main road and are back on Linderburgh with it's busy traffic and stop lights lining the long stretch. I pull my hand in from outside and feel the warm temperature on my chilled hand. It feels like such a strong contrast. I grab my shades from my purse and put them on and turn from the window. This is the reality that I live, the memories I will just have to bury them again.