Realizations of Loss

It is no longer the home I grew up in. The loss of my mother is evident now more than ever, cementing the realization of how one person’s impact can be as much the foundation of a home as the concrete itself. It has been two years since our lives changed forever. My dad is recently remarried and trying to move forward after losing his wife of almost thirty-eight years to terminal brain cancer. Since my mother’s death and my father’s subsequent remarriage, our family house has lost its comfortable feel of home; in its place now resides a reflective sadness, an impersonal emptiness, and a surreal urgency.

The living and dining rooms are now tidy and impersonal. Gone is the familiar clutter of children’s books and teaching aides. The half-finished crosswords and other reading material are no longer in their stacks next her chair in the living room. The chair isn’t even there anymore. It had traveled with Mom to hospice care after a stroke left her unable to walk.

Another major difference is the remodeling activity. Since my parent’s purchased this house when I was four, they had remodeling plans. Somewhere along the way, everyday life and complacency had always gotten in the way. Lately, almost as if in defiance of the past, my father’s current “do it now, there may not be a later” attitude had taken over. He is currently working on the upstairs master bedroom. My parents had always wanted to make one large master bedroom out of two adjacent bedrooms upstairs, but it always seemed to take a back seat to more urgent fixes or budgetary needs. The two extra bedrooms upstairs now stood as one, finally coming closer towards their fruition. The smell of fresh paint brings a sad nostalgia running through me. Why isn’...

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...as my family, my childhood…my mother.

As time passes, I know that I will have to accept that what once was will never be again. Maybe things would be easier if my dad and his second wife moved to a different house, but that is not my decision to make. Change is part of life and while sometimes it is wonderful, other times it is a painful journey in which we feel alone, even abandoned. My home, the place I grew up in, was not so much the walls themselves, but the person who created the security that I felt through an unconditional love. That is what a home is; home is a nonjudgmental, irreplaceable love that can still see your best even when you are at your worst. Those of us who have had that kind of home should feel fortunate. I didn’t realize how fortunate I truly was until I stood within its absence. I know I do now, in more ways than ever before.