Earlier this week I noticed some mail on my table. Instinctively, I went up to the mother and asked her very petulantly, “Did you guys go home?” The mother responded with a nod. It took me a whole five minutes to realize the blunder. I wonder if the mother noticed the aberration at all.
It’s been three months and these lapses persist. I’m still torn with the idea of home. I live at “home” coz I’m living with my parents. My world moved along with me. Pieces of furniture, the familiar paintings and other memorabilia constitute that idea of home.
On the other hand, I miss the nook by the window, the cozy spot by the telephone and the “living room” that held all photographs, the library and the music collection. We consciously chose not to recreate that space. We consoled ourselves that the space had outgrown its purpose.
Today, a different set of spaces and rituals define the new place (yes, it still feels new): the TV room where we congregate every evening and discuss the day’s happenings over dinner; the mommy’s bedroom, which removes me from my chaotic world to an oasis of calm; the customary struggle to determine which switch operates what.
Someday, all this would have become home as well.