I knew the day (I should say week) was coming, but it still snuck up on me. You know that dreaded time when you have to clean out your childhood home. The home that has virtually stayed untouched since my mother pasted away fifteen years ago. Old books still tucked onto shelves, Christmas decorations stowed under the stairs, and stuffed animals still in the back of closets. It all had to be cleaned out when my father (ninty-four years old next month) made the decision to move into an assisted living facility.
This decision came abruptly and my sister and I may never know what caused his change of mind. We have been trying to discuss assisted living with him for several years, but he was content to live in his familiar environment, alongside the neighbors he’d known since 1972. The only problem being, most of those neighbors are no longer there. Living in another state, our phone conversations have consisted of my dad asking if I remember Mr. Ames.
“Sure, I remember Mr. Ames.”
“Well, he’s dead.”
“What happened?”
“He was old. Do you remember Mrs. Kennedy?”
“Of course, Dad, she lives next door to you.”
“Not anymore. She’s dead, too.” (Names have been changed to protect the innocent.)
My dad has never been known for his savoir faire.
So, I spent last week going through childhood memories, making sure there were enough pieces of Spirograph to actually put it in the give-away pile and dusting off the old Monkeys forty-fives. The ballet costumes had grown ‘crunchy’ with time and the prom dresses were slightly yellow (was I really that skinny in high school?). Ah, the memories…
It wasn’t until my last morning there, that my dad said, “You know it’s hard to say goodbye to a house. It was a part of our lives for a long time and it gives you a sense of stability and safety. You always knew if you needed to come home, you could.”
All week I’d fought the threatening tears, as I put old sleeping bags into boxes and dusted off coolers, remembering the camping trips we used to take as a family. I was closing a door on a chapter of my past that would only be reopened in my mind, but I knew he was right. If I’d ever needed to come home, I could have.