Tonight I write this blog from the comfort of the living room of my childhood. It looks considerably different than when I lived here, but it, and the rest of this house, will always be home to me. In the red bedroom I remember my oldest brother jumping out of the shadows at James and I right before we fell asleep in his
Freddy Krueger gear, scaring the living hell out of us. The brown bathroom I'm reminded of the time
Littlefoot was sent to his watery grave. The kitchen has memories of fabulous food, lots of laughter, and stories of a night when mashed potatoes some how ended up on the celling. Oh and I can't forget the time that a bowl of hot chicken soup somehow ended up on my head. There are fond memories all over this house for me, but for some reason when I'm in the living room I'm often reminded of the spot where mom lost her battle with cancer. The night she died she was right here in this very room, in a bed not five feet from where I sit. So many things happened on that spot the 21 years prior, yet the memory that always comes back to me is that one.
I don't know why I go back to that day nearly seven years ago when I'm here. My mom
lived in this house, and yet the first and most vivid memory I come to of this room is of when she
died here. Sure I remember sitting around the living room watching soaps with her while she painted scads and scads of Santa pins on her waxed paper lined ironing board, or trimming the tree in the living room while listening to
Bing on Dad's big speakers, hell I even remember many a fight I had with my siblings (usually Charles) in this room, but I
always go back to that night when I'm here. Why is it so hard to get past that? Why is it so hard to be in this room and
not think of that?
On this the last few minutes of the day that would have been my Mom's 62nd birthday I want to make a promise to myself that I will make a conscious effort to associate that spot with the many happy moments that happened there, and not the sad day that mom died there.
