In this I believe – that home is in the heart
The large 3 bedroom house that my mother, father, two sisters and I held residence in for the past 11 years has become an empty tomb. All of the things that once made this house a home; have either been distributed amongst friends, placed in a pile labeled TRASH, DONATIONS or left for the new residents to claim. The bedrooms are empty of furniture, and the personal memorabilia describing the person inhabiting each room have all disappeared.
This house has witnessed the college graduation of 3 daughters from immigrant parents. It has withstood a caved in rough around the same time my grandfather passed away. It has been the eyes and ears to more than one argument between me and my parents, me and my sisters and my parents arguing between themselves. These days the walls wear ear plugs to withstand the blows that my parents yodel throughout the house; every floor of the 3 story duplex echoes my mother’s thick Serbian crescendo and my father’s lulled Chinese accents. Usually, if the door to my bedroom is open I simply close it, but lately this simple method of volume delay doesn’t hold up anymore. I look around the bare room for something to pile between the door and the rising volume coming from the hallway and all I have to offer is the blankets off of my small fold up bed. I decide to turn the TV on for the moment. It seems to do the trick – at least for the last 20 minutes of the argument.
I never thought that at 28 I would be a child of divorced parents with an unassembled home. Or that my family and what I have known of home would be completely dismantled. But as I sort through old photos and old journal entries, letters from abroad; as I sift through all my unwanted junk I am discovering that home remains within my heart. The home my parents had built for my sisters and me while they were together may no longer be a home; and we may no longer be a traditional family but I will always carry the memories of family and home with me.
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