It feels like I’m camping out in my own room. My bed has been dismantled, so my mattress is just lying on the floor, and since mum decided to wash the duvet itself, I’m lying under a hoodie. Good thing the nights are getting warmer…
I took my glasses off (was watching Les Mis) and as they clicked closed they actually echoed a little. My typing is really loud. All that remains in the room is the essentials I’ll take along with me on Friday, including my trusty Pooh bear. He’s been to two continents, eight countries and eight different addresses with me; I made sure to bring him back from the flat so that he would be there on my first day in our new home.
This is an odd feeling. This is the place where I’ve spent 19 of my (almost) 24 years. It’s my childhood home, and the place I’ve returned every summer without fail since I had to move out in third year. It’s just home.
I thought, of course it’s possible to have an attachment to the place itself. There is the dent in the garage door, where my sister drove the car into it (for the second time); at the top of the stairs is where we wrote our names before it was wallpapered; in the living room floor, there’s a scratch from when my friend threw herself on the sofa too hard and broke a spring; there’s the place in the kitchen where Charlie, our dog, ate a hole in the wall when he was only eight weeks old. (Charlie, incidentally, has no clue what’s going on, but it’s making him mopey.) In the garden is my own rowan tree (well, the one I brought home that dad planted) beside the place where our four pet rabbits were buried.
This is the place where we did our growing up. We celebrated so many birthdays, Christmases and New Years here – even a millennium, for crying out loud!
Then, I saw the place as it is now. My room without furniture, without any clutter (I’m all about the clutter). The living room, without the mirror above the fireplace or pictures on the walls. The kitchen, cupboards EMPTY. (I’m starving.)
Maybe it turns out this place is just bricks and mortar, four walls and a roof. Maybe home really is where the heart is – wherever my parents are. Maybe without all OUR stuff, this house isn’t really home at all.
Of course, I say this now. I have a feeling that, come Friday, I’m going to be an emotional wreck.