It’s already begun sneaking up on me. Circulating in the periphery. Slipped away and dwelled in the darkness of winter before it suddenly attacks like a cat that’s hidden under the couch and throws itself after your innocent toes when you least expect it. Because when spring comes, so does the longing for my old house.
Last spring was a battle field between gratitude over having somewhere to live at all, and the anger and sorrow over losing my house and home. In the grey February storms, tucking my coat close to my body, I’m a little bit thankful for not having to put pieces of a roof that was torn out by the winds, and the sense of loss is lessened. But the other changing seasons are harder to handle. Spring comes and it’s time to start putting down seeds, growing plants. And I can’t be bothered to try even.
The contact with nature, that you were brought along the sun’s journey across the sky, how it’s path changed with the turning of the year. The big south facing window to baby pepper and chili plants in. The fact that the everlasting winds ripped the plants to shreds immediately when we put them outside that one time, well, that memory kind of fades away, and what remains is only the sun drenched patio with its mile wide views.
That one time when we had to abort a nice cup of coffee in order to run out and catch our green house before it blew right out over the fields a Saturday in April was something that just came along with the house. It was worth it. I know that the fierce January winds turned that green house into shrapnel before we even sold it but the new-old owner didn’t care. All he wanted was his house back. His house. My house.
The house where I could open the patio door and all that came in through it was sunshine and the sound of trees moving in the calm winds. The little coos of forest pigeons in the distance, the horny hoots of owls in mating season. The silence at night was deafening. When I moved back to my mom’s place I didn’t sleep properly for six weeks, disturbed by the sounds of the city.
Even my friends miss the house. There was something magical about it. Now in retrospect, I’m torn between the gratitude of getting the chance to live there for almost two years, and the sense that maybe I’d been happier now if I hadn’t experienced what it was like to feel that much at home somewhere, that I never had before.