Impressions made by that or those who are no longer with us claim a homestead in memory. The aroma of perfume. The furrowed shape left on a pillow. The now absent sound of laughter, breath, words, or shared silence. These empty spaces are footprints on a rain-soaked path in late spring. When the rains subside, the touch points left by those who traveled leave whispers. As summer comes on, these impressions are set in our memories by sun rays of connectedness and loss.
My dream home came up for sale today. It is not a house to which many would ascribe that moniker. However, It is the very place where my sons did much of their growing up. As it happened, our home was sacrificed, like so many, on the altar of marital dissolution.
The boys and I have spoken often of the dream of one day buying it back, of reclaiming our ‘home.’ Sure the brick facade has been painted over and someone else has imprinted it with their concept of ‘home,’ but with some blood, sweat, and tears, we would make it ours again.
After hours on the phone with bankers, it appears those hopes have been dashed by the advent of ‘market appreciation’ relative to my income. Dreams are fickle things. My heart, though full with the bounty of my good fortune, is a bit heavy today.