I am a nester by choice, by birth, I strive to create a home, a place where people want to congregate and like, learn to love each other. I like to cook, bake, feed the hungry. I like the light of the candles on vibrant walls, the feel of wood beneath my feet. I like the sound of an ambient melody, of fingers on paper, a warm mug. I like the idea of impromptu sleepovers. Of friends, family, lovers lingering. I like the discovery of sand in winter, pine needles in summer shaking out rugs from the seasons before. I like open windows and knowing my neighbors. I liked, loved where I lived and now for the first time in a very long time I feel trapped.
After spending the majority of the last 2 years renovating the garden apartment in my father’s house…on my own. Ripping out the old, replacing with the new. Adding modern-day comforts to make my life easier; to make the life I had made for myself outside this house less stressful when I came home. Paint chips, granite, stainless steel, bargains and steals, investments in color and warmth, investments in me. I had finally paid off the contractor, it seemed nothing more was needed to make it feel like home, and it was home, finally, but it didn’t last very long.
Not nearly more than a month.
That’s when the stroke came.
And now no place is my own, no place is private, no place is mine.
I thought in moving most of his ancillary belongings downstairs, by adding cable and a spanking new television he might adapt and adjust at an easier (potentially quicker pace). Instead he lives in limbo, walking stairs against instruction, sitting at tables encroaching on gray space.
I just came home from work, I don’t want to see you. I don’t want you in my part of the house. Go away. Stop reading to me, pushing the cereal box onto my keyboard, stop making crumbs on my floor.
I have a lot of patience, but I wonder if the well ever goes dry.
How long until I snap, go mad?
How long before he realizes I am losing myself in every day that he regains his strenghth?
How many daughters move out when their parents age? Reverse assertion.
An ultimatum, a decision, an offering, a piece. What will be my peace? Where will be my peace?
Will I have to force myself to make a decision, to finally leave?
Where will I live? Where do I want to live? I was supposed to be married by now, wasn’t I?
Perhaps like someone suggested today, the time has finally come for me to selfishly flee.