Your Parents’ New Home

Your parents have moved down the coast to a place where it’s always summer, even in the winter. Three days before Christmas and you’re eating seafood at a sidewalk café, the ocean breeze combing through your hair like fingers attached to hands attached to someone who wants you. It’s 81 degrees and this is their home now.

You like the house. It sits on an Edward Scissorhands block with manicured bushes and pastelled neighbors, 70-somethings trapped in ‘70-something. The bathroom is dressed in coral and always smells like sunscreen. You used to stay in houses like this, houses with seashells sitting on windowsills, houses with beach towels in every closet. You stayed there for a week, maybe two, and then you’d return to the pavement, and the subways, and the river. You’ll return to all of that again, but your parents will stay behind this time. This is their home now.

And how can that be? Because you’ve never left smudged fingerprints on the walls, and you’ve never hidden a report card in your pillowcase, and you’ve never sat in the driveway waiting for some boy to pick you up, some boy whose name you’ll forget in five years. You’ve never slammed any of these freshly-painted doors, never screamed or cried or muttered I hate you I hate you I hate you under your breath knowing no one will hear you while secretly hoping someone does.

You’ve never thrown a baseball through the window and you’ve never stolen pulls from a cigarette in your bedroom, you don’t even have a bedroom here. You’ve never woken up in the middle of the night for a snack and turned on an episode of Unsolved Mysteries to watch while you were eating it, and you’ve never become so afraid during that hour that you sat upright in the eat-in kitchen until the sun rose, you’ve never done that here. You’ve never snuck out and you’ve never snuck in because you can come and go as you please, you’re a guest now. This isn’t your home, but it is theirs.

At five in the afternoon you walk in perfectly straight lines, up and down and in and out of the grid their house sits on and you’ll smile and you’ll wave whenever someone drives by because these people are your neighbors now, somehow, by extension. A guy wearing a pale blue t-shirt with jagged edges where the sleeves should be grins at you from the window of his white truck and you won’t feel excited to see someone your own age as much as you’ll mourn all of the times you flew down here to visit your grandparents; you played mini-golf and fell in puppy love with some kid playing a hole ahead of you [every single time; always a different boy] and he was wearing a baseball cap and sun-cloaked skin and you wanted to kiss him before you knew what it could mean, what it could do. You could fall in love anywhere, with anyone, when you were little. As the guy in the pale blue t-shirt sails by and makes a left onto your parents’ new block, you don’t wish you could kiss him; instead you wish you didn’t know exactly what you like, you wish you were indiscriminate so that you could like anything.

The sun goes down and leaves bales of cotton candy in its wake, pink and blue streaking across the sky like a welcome banner for newborns. It’s a boy and it’s a girl, you think, clouds are mostly white where I live, you think, where is my home now? You wonder. TC mark

image – tribblepuppy


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  • Katie

    I went through this last year. Feels weird not knowing where to call home..

  • Je Sk

    fucking F L O R I D A!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

  • Mkomar200

    I got goosebumps, you write beautifully 

  • Báyron

    Is this a jab at Florida? [I guess I’m not the only one who thought so.]

  • Joe C

    “The sun goes down and leaves [bales] of cotton candy in its wake, pink and
    blue streaking across the sky like a welcome banner for newborns.”

    This is tremendously beautiful.

  • rr4qa

    Good article, but why write in the second person? 

    • Natasha Reeves

      It is a wonderful perspective. Like, an out-of-body experience. This can’t be real…you know?

  • Sarah

    I’m slightly terrified of the day when my parents leave my childhood home, even though it is set in a dead end town where I’d never be able to move back and make a life for myself. Also, this was beautiful and so true at times: ”
    you wish you didn’t know exactly what you like, you wish you were indiscriminate so that you could like anything”

  • Tanya Salyers

    My parents moved half a block away from the house I grew up in, into an exponentially larger house.  It feels super weird, I’m still by all my friends and the street I grew up on, but inside is strange.

  • Erynn Clover

    I know this feeling, My parents up and fled to Florida and they like to call me when its cold as ever and say “well we’re in the pool!” they laugh and I grumble, and its not a real house, just a feeling i get, My mom always loved the country and not having neighbors, now shes 2 feet apart from the next house in this little suburbia town. Very weird.

  • Meredith H

    My parents moved South two years ago, the summer before my sophomore year of college. Not tropical South, but far enough for “y’all”s. I was surprised at how easily I acclimated. I’m not there often, but I have no trouble calling it home. The walls I grew up in had nothing to do with who I am today – it was the people within those walls. Wherever they are, that’s home. 

  • Lindsay

    beautiful and poignant 

  • Natasha Reeves

    Really hit me this time around. My parents were as unrecognizable as was the home…

  • Chelsea

    My mom is talking about selling our home. Even though my dad is gone, my brother moved out three years ago, and I’m away at university 9 months out of the year, it still feels wrong. This house  has witnessed both the deepest of family tragedies, and the joys of indescribable pride. I can understand the logic behind selling a large house that usually is only occupied by one woman and  small yellow lab, but it still hurts to know that this time next year we will have said goodbye to a fine house, fine neighbors, and over a decade of memories.

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