Is a house really a home when your loved ones are gone

A distant cousin who jokes that some of us are distant enough to be “kissin’ cousins” asked about the state of my writing since being in Arizona. I said I didn’t have anything, my head had just been in a fog. I lied.

This is the same cousin who writes so beautiful and expresses herself in any manner needed; may it be elegant, raunchy or raw. The same cousin that gave me inspiration to pick up the hypothetical pen again and flush the insides out. However, I’m not quite ready to be so raw, so un-cut. I’m not ready to dive so deep but rather, I skim the top of my ocean like I watched my grandfather do every evening he joined us for a swim at his house. And like my childhood self, I don’t have the nerve to swim to the deep end alone, but lack the ability to reach my hand out for help.

Saturday after I finally arrived I wrote “strange how this house continues to have that "Grandma's house" smell, but feels so empty and alone...” on my facebook status before drifting off to sleep. Of course the house lacked the smell of something delicious (Or garlicky/fishy) permeating the air and perhaps it did have a bit of staleness to it, I could still the presence of her, I could still feel it was her home.

The same home I trudged down the hill every afternoon from school after the bus ride home. The house that in my later teen years I hid in the closet when I decided I didn’t want to go to school and I could hear her walking back towards the washer. The same home I broke into time and time again because sleeping in my car seemed too scary and although unwelcome, a warm bed was a better option. The same home that I came to to find all the windows and doors locked and guarded. The same home that after many years I still feel guilt even walking in the front doors.

So as I drift to sleep, I instantly feel the guilt settle on me like a blanket. I feel guilt for leaving so quickly after she passed. For needing to get away from the memories that I so desperately want to wrap around myself on days where I find myself in my “dark and twisty” spot.

No, I’m not like Beth who so effortlessly lays it out so that you have no choice but to feel the emotion. And I can’t bring myself to completely let go of my dark and twisty spot for fear that once I do, I might have nothing left.

And even though at times I complain that I am a shell of a person but then change my mind begging to not feel at all, I can’t bare my soul for fear of the power that others might be able to see. I can’t write what I should write, because it seems like too much to feel. So instead, I pull the cold metal cord and turn the lights out and try and find myself at rest and at home.

"I’m coming home, I’m coming home, tell the World I’m coming home, let the rain wash away all the pain of yesterday.I know my kingdom awaits and they’ve forgiven my mistakes. I’m coming home, I’m coming home tell the World that I’m coming."