Yesterday, I walked into my house for the first time in about a month, but who's keeping track. It smelled like a house that hasn't been lived in enough lately; slightly stale and dusty. It looked barren in some places and crowded in others, where I'd pulled a bunch of stuff out from dark corners, intending to purge. The floorboards creaked like they always have and it sounded like my house, my own house, the house my husband and I don't quite own and are about to sell.
I am quite comfortable out at the farm, if not totally. It was my home, and we visit often, so it hasn't been hard to settle in there. It is not home though, despite my parents making us feel at home and welcome. It's "the Farm." It's their home, it's the haven and refuge we escape to. Things change slowly there, but I've showed up and moved things, changed things, gotten rid of things. I had to do it and I'm not sure how I feel about it.
It took years to feel at home in this little house of mine. It took years to scrape off the layers of somebody else's wallpaper until the house felt like a place I could call home. Now I'm preparing it to be somebody else's again. It saddens me, but at the same time I have a nagging awareness that I never truly belonged here. I made friends, the kind I'll keep, and I established networks and familiarity. I can look out my window and see the neighbourhood so much of my life revolved around, but I feel that old claustrophobia again. Too many houses. Too much pavement.
The farmhouse is too close to a highway and at night the big trucks rattle their engine brakes to slow down for the curve. The sky is darker than in town, but close enough to several small towns to see a slight orange haze in the distance.
I walk into the house in the evening after leaving the barn, and I have to look up. There are stars out there, all shapes and sizes. I never get tired of them. The other night, a falling star the size of a firework sizzled through the sky like it was getting ready to land in the neighbour's hay field. I made a wish.
I know there's a place for me to move my little family. I pray that when we can afford it, we'll find it. I pray for a lot of things. I don't know if I'm praying for the right things. All I know is that when I'm under that big sky, surrounded by the crickets that sing all day and all night, I feel like myself. I feel like things aren't quite right but I'll survive.
But right now, between two houses and two worlds, I feel like I somehow belong and yet not belong to both.
I could almost get dizzy.