Slithered in yesterday while on the way back from a road/camping trip with the kids.
I don’t wanna go home.
Home is where there’s grass to grow and then slice down. It’s where there’s a litter box to scoop. Where there’s one bathroom that only I don’t use and only I clean.
Home. This house. It used to represent everything I wanted — family, friends, fun, belonging. Now it represents everything I don’t — clutter, monotony, confinement, noise.
How am I going to make it to 2017? I once wrote. That was when my younger child would start kindergarten.
How am I going to make it twelve more years until he graduates? I now ask.
Because then — then — my life can really begin. That’s when there won’t be crumbs and boredom to wipe away.
We moved into a camper once. Travelled around the US for several months until our dog needed knee surgery and we were out of money.
Do it now, our landlord had said, before you have kids.
I want that again. But this time with the kids.
What would I create for the three of us if Aaron were dead?
I wonder this a lot.
Especially during the summer when wildfires erupt and he’s away.
See you in October, we say.
It doesn’t scare me to wonder. We’ve been raising each other for almost twenty years, and I want to know who I am independent of him. Asking guides me to me. Who am I without his influence? Without his mechanical and financial support? Without conflating his beliefs and desires with mine?
This house looms over me. A building. Two floors. Four walls. Mortgage. I’m a victim in its presence.
Home calls to me. A non-physical space of eternal changelessness. An essence that’s always been. A calm certainty amidst impermanence. An inner knowing. Peace.
I write my way to it. Each line a stream of air through a vent.
At home I can’t breathe. At home I can.