After almost three years with a for sale sign in the front yard my parents finally sold the Seville house. I was devastated when they told me that they were moving from that beautiful old farmhouse where I grew up. But I've had a few years to get used to the idea and now a new family lives there. I hope they enjoy watering the sunflowers on summer evenings as much as I did. And I'll never forget how smooth the red stairs felt; the edges were rounded down from a century of bare feet.
The concept of home is something that I'll never quite be able to grasp. It's some sort of equilibrium between the land, the notion that you are completely safe when there, and family. It just feels so right. I've tried to make myself a little version of home in Columbus; I have so many loving friends here who are my city family and who I'm going to miss terribly when we graduate. Maybe it's that change that I'm afraid of; the impermanence of moving from home to home that all twenty-somethings experience. The scene in Garden State when Andrew talks about the loss of comfort that he had as a child always makes my heart hurt a little:
"You'll see when you move out it just sort of happens one day, one day and it's just gone. And you can never get it back. It's like you get homesick for a place that doesn't exist. I mean it's like this rite of passage, you know? You won't have this feeling again until you create a new idea of home for yourself, you know, for your kids, for the family you start, it's like a cycle or something. I miss the idea of it. Maybe that's all family really is. A group of people who miss the same imaginary place."