It was the spirit of Mom’s home that made it a home, not the things, I’m realizing now.
In the weeks I stayed to take care of the cleaning, her home grew strange and beautiful to me. Before, it was neither, or had I simply failed to notice?
It was never my home. I would be reminded of this whenever Mom would kick me out. I can’t recall what used to make her so angry. Maybe it was that I wouldn’t come home sometimes, or she had found my stash. No one can scare the slut or pothead out of a daughter the way a mother can.
When I finally did, officially move out, it wasn’t because she was angry. Neither was I. I moved for no reason other than someone, a stranger, unbarred me from believing I had to stay. He freed me by reminding me that life was rushing by. I thought this stranger was Jesus at the time, a story I’ll save for a future post.
Mom stood at the door, pale as a ghost when I said goodbye. Maybe she knew it was for real that time. Her attempts to get me to move back after that made me sad, and I came close a few times, but tied roots down as quickly as I could to my new, close-enough-to-be-near, far-enough-to-do-my-own-thing-without-being-caught, judged or warned-about-my-evil-doings, home.
But I knew no matter what happened, I could always return. I could chance the impossible and land back at Mom’s if I failed. Regardless, I never took such chances.
What makes your home a home?