When the kids were little, we owned a house in Andover, Massachusetts. In the inflated Massachusetts home market of 2002, the place was a dump but really only in need of lots of cosmetic work. It was a corner lot and had a wonderful side yard. Gary did much work reclaiming that side yard that had been so overgrown when we moved in and we affectionately called it the "meadow".
I have some good memories of the kids playing in the meadow. One Saturday, Gary and the kids decided to play softball. Bases were created out of odds and ends from the garage and the game was set. With Gary as pitcher and a big over sized yellow bat the game began. Soon it was Abby's turn to bat. Although not even five, contact was somehow made with the ball and she took the base. Eventually she made it to second. The next batter hit a double too and the cry went out " Run Home Abby, Run Home". Abandoning her base in the meadow she ran to our front door and proclaimed that she had scored a run. Even at the tender age of four she knew where her home was. We still laugh at that story today. When you are in the midst of creating a life it is hard to know what stories will become family lore and those that will soon be forgotten. When I think of that story I think of a little girl not even able to read who clearly knew already where home was.
One of the most rupturing things about divorce is losing that sense of home you have with another person no matter where you live. Not long after Gary and I began to live separate lives I rode the train back from Poughkeepsie to Albany after a visit with my parents. For most of the trip I held back tears grappling with the concept of where I would be buried someday. My parents had long ago picked burial plots in the cemetery in Hurley where so many of our relatives had been buried before. Who would I be buried next to and where? As with most life changes you can only take so much on at once and to deal with this, I buried the thought in the back of my mind.
As an adult I've had many homes. In the past thirty years, I lived in Buffalo, Rochester, Albany, Philadelphia, and Andover. At each place I have made good friends and enjoyed my life. Would I call any of these places home though?
Here, interestingly enough, my three closest friends are all a few years older than me. One, a single mom like me has roots in the community. She is not leaving anytime soon. My other two friends though, have spoken openly of concrete retirement plans in other locations in just a few years. I feel a sense of panic and loss thinking that in just a matter of time these emotional touchstones will be gone. I know I must guard against jumping into something just to know these anticipated voids will be filled.
For now I am floundering. Like a fish out of water, I am gasping for air and not knowing if I will perish on the shore or make it back into the stream. Some days I hope there is a greater force and a bigger plan that will make sense of all this pain and angst. In the darkest moments I deal by remembering that even if a little girl can find home maybe I will too.
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