Death of a Childhood Home

Day 59-Year 3

Team Zybko

September 28, 2014

It's just a house. It' not a person. It has no feelings like you and me just a bunch of tired carpet, red brick and out dated windows. It doesn't breath. It's not alive. It has no voice. My mind understands the difference but my heavy, melancholy heart has yet to get the memo. I can't seem to wrap my brain around the process, the loss, the sadness or the scheduled demolition crew to arrive in a few weeks. The death of my childhood house. It can't be time for that.

A simple suburban structure built in the 50's with the easy to remember name of 703, it's street #. During our farewell weekend I suggested we give it a real name but after 43 years no one was willing to change. 703 is the name that stuck. 703 is the place 7 mold able childhoods were formed, tended to, bundled up and cast out into the great big scary world of real life adulthood. 703 has too many memories to think about, recollect or even attempt to type out in a single post. 703 is a safe place. 703 is our friend. 703 is the address we all refer to as home.

We all knew our reunion weekend was going to go by quickly, we just didn't realize how lightning fast it really would be. If real life wasn't nipping at our heels we would have loved to call the front desk for a later check out. One fun camp out night in the back yard around a portable fire pit, eating treat food not on every ones middle aged diet, telling stories about days gone by, one decade at a time.

 A get together intended to celebrate the love we have surrounding our up bringing, our parents and the sturdy foundation of 703 that seems to hold it all. On the flip side, also a party, a specific place in our lives to find closure before the wrecking ball rolls up, parks in our worn out driveway and begins its feast. Devouring, smashing, crushing and tearing down the memories and the walls that hold a million giggles, inside jokes, hugs, arguments, tears and untold secrets between us all. 

 Perhaps I'm being a tidy tad dramatic, I don't know, maybe I am. Forgive me, I have never been down this road before. Unfamiliar territory, unsure of how it is supposed to play out or what feelings to expect. I sit here alone with my strong coffee in a blackened room before the rest of the house stirs. Awakened before I wanted to be, my tired weekend eyes popping open from a dream that felt too real to sleep through. 

Ironically, my nights have been haunted with happy recollections of days spent at 703. Dreams where everything was just right, no worries, safety held as close to me as my husky corduroy pants from Sears. Not a single care in the world. Food on the table, siblings to play with, clean clothes to wear, gas in the family car with more than enough places to go. While deeply REM-ing in my cozy bed, a fluffy white cloud of happiness lingers over my homemade 8 year old bowl haircut. Like I said, everything was just right, except the bangs, they always were a little crooked. 

This is the point my subconscious fast forwards and takes a plummet off a cliff I failed to see coming. It's demolition time and I'm sad, I want more time to say goodbye.
 I'm not ready. I'm not ready. I'm not ready.

I. Need. More. Time.

I took a gazillion pictures but depressingly each frame fell drastically short. The thing is I don't want to remember 703 through a Walgreens print out, collage or Mac Book folder. I long and desire to hold on to 703 with all of my senses, in 4D. In a real life way a 2D digital image can never live up to, ever.

I want to run my fingers along the smooth 70's print of the Formica kitchen counters.

I want to pant out of breath with excitement around the yard in a competitive game of ball tag.

I want to walk down the short hallway to my parents room as a five year old wanting to sleep between them after a bad dream. 

I want to hear the exact creaks of stairs 3 and 4 leading down to the T.V room.

I want to smell the familiar stuffy upstairs air with not a hint of air conditioning.

I want to sit comfortably on the floor of my room as a teenager and wonder how many children I will have.

 I want to get a little scratched up crawling through the sun porch window because someone has accidentally locked the side door.

I want to see the front windows fill up with steam signaling dinner time is only a few minutes away. 

I want sun kissed cheeks from hours spent swinging and pumping my short legs on the metal swing set.

I want my bum cheeks to feel the cold slab of the front steps in search of a little quiet time outside the always full house.

I want to spend a lazy, rainy afternoon playing board games, building card houses and penny roads for Match Box cards.

 I want to hide nervously in the best hiding spots before anyone else gets to them during a game of hide and seek. 

I want to walk in the garage to re-read the many bumper stickers decorating the wall with political statements and candidates names of the 70's.

 I want to hear the basement furnace lovingly dry seven pairs of mittens and scarves so we can sled down Mt. Daniel Drive a few more times before dark. 

I want eat a meal of leftovers heated up in the oven with white bread, a generous pat of butter and a cold glass of whole milk. 

I want to struggle up the rope swing tied to the corner tree not giving up til I past at least the first knot.

I want to wake up Christmas morning and magically whisper with 6 of my favorite people, all of us wondering if something off our catalog dream list is under the tree in the living room.

I want to sleep in my bathing suit ready for the long awaited opening day of High Point Pool.

I want to fling open the alley way gate anxious to get home to my mom after school and tell of good news from the day.

I want sit to around our overturned John Boat in the back yard and eat a burger grilled by my daddy's strong and gentle hands.

I want to mow the lawn sweating in the heat of the summer with Tina Turner blasting through my Sony walkman.

I want to lie on the couch sipping Ginger Ale being nursed by my mommy while my sibs are all busy learning at school.

I want to sprawl out on the living room floor slugging through pages of homework only to be distracted by smells of baked goods.

I want to ride bikes down Pine Street and up Walnut Street till my legs ache. 

I want to listen for the slam of the side door as my dad gets home from work.

I want to stare out of the living room window waiting for winter flurries in hopes of a snow day.

I want to hear my mom hum a pretty tune as she tirelessly sweeps and mops day after day.

I want to always be a able to drive by and physically see my childhood sitting nicely 20 feet back from the curb.

 Some times we don't get what we want.
This is the case now.

I want more time I can't have.
This is life.
Homes are sold.
Seasons die.
Change is hard.
703 you will be missed more than you know.
1971-2014