collapsing time

going home. again and again

I opened my camera roll today and it served up the very empty home we left, one year ago today. The emptiness was palpable in the grip of my heart.

“Gosh, I miss her.” And also, where has the year gone?  Time has bent, jumped and warped. A year in a week, a wink, a blur.

I left Chicago a year ago to come home. My father is here, but no longer remembers my name each visit. I often get Bubbie or “here she is”.  I know he knows I am of the “people who love him” variety of visitor, different than his daily caretakers.

For decades after I divorced, I stayed in Chicago away from my family back East in New York, so that my girls could be near their father. They were just 2 and 9 ish at the time of the agreement. I could not bear the fight for “removal”, as the courts called it. I would often tease that I was a prisoner of the state of Illinois.

This upset everyone I shared it with, especially my girls. You see, my sister, brothers and father were all back in New York. My mother had died years earlier and I just had this ache to be back in the arms of the memories and support of family.

I moved away from “home” after I lost my Mom, trying to escape the grief. It found me in Chicago and everywhere I roamed, but especially during the divorce. As a single Mom I longed to feel attached, held and less like a foreigner in a place I had once chosen.

As I peer at the photo of a very empty and packed dining room, I recall seeing the beautiful herringbone floors on the day I went to visit the listing at 638 West Oakdale — with my new husband. An early 1800s brownstone that had been lovingly renovated my a former owner over the course of a year—rescuing her from great neglect. No family with children had ever lived here. She was poshly decorated in 90s splendor. Done like a girl who went to the make up counter and bought all she was offered from foundation to translucent powder and a bright new lip to match her garish blush.

I was ready to undo the fuss and bring back her dewy and playful spirit. The oak hardwood floors remained, the wallpaper was stripped away and a cool sweatshirt grey, warmed the walls. I had a flat roman shade made in the same color with a hot pink stripe of linen at the center. This was the first home purchased by us. Where I built a new life, in a new home and a new family some years post decree. I was making house and longing for the one I still imagined back home.

On moving day, when this photo was taken — only the paint and curtain remain. What is missing but forever in my memory are the many family meals we shared at the dining table. The table was gifted to me by a dear friend when I lost mine in the divorce. A set of 8 antique chairs scored for a song rounded it. Their embroidery was faded in the sun of a former Lake Shore Drive home to a just-right shade of Shabby Chic. My youngest, hosted a Friendsgiving one year. High school pals and a fun medley of sides, which the girls’ liked best of all. I hid in the next room listening to the serving and clinking and laughs. Little, big girls, enjoying a new tradition.

I hosted my Dad here. Many visits. My husband had a “not quite 50” birthday soiree for me that doubled as a housewarming. The former owners installed a dumb waiter and it was a fancy way to put all the fixings to set the table and send them from the lower level kitchen up to the dining room. Our very own “Downton Abbey”. I remember seeing the home with my girls’ and addressing their big idea of riding our family Maltese inside — to a resounding “no” and “never”. Thank you very much.

It is empty in the photo, but full in my mind’s eye.  The wall held a sideboard to ceiling installation of artwork scored from flea markets and travel. The built in shelves that shouldered the fireplace nestled shells from beaches near and far.

It is not hard to recall the memories or the outfits worn in this room to celebrate. I still covet the very sexy dress I dared to wear on that October evening when I was 49. A navy and grey wool fitted sheath.

The sun that filled the room from the glass enclosed den, sparkles in my imaginings. It was snowy when we saw her that March day. We were not looking for a single family home, but she found us. When we needed her and she needed us too.

We miss her. Something I did not imagine as I finally got the green light to move. Both girls now graduated and grown. I visited with my Dad today. Just minutes from my Westchester home. Home…a tricky word. More a feeling than a place. One that you know more and better when you leave it behind.