Random Thoughts

It was nightfall and the coolness of the evening was refreshing after another long, hot, and sticky day. I could see her silhouette reflected in the moonlight as we approached the place I had always called home. She seemed so much at peace. I was afraid to break the spell of the evening by calling out her name.

It had been too long since I had last seen her. The memory of my mother sitting on the porch on a cool summer’s eve, always brought a smile to the corner of my lips. Only this time, I suddenly realized as we approached my childhood home, that my mother wouldn’t be there. Instead, I would find the often-stern face of my younger sister, Renee; waiting as my sons and I returned to the one place, I knew I could always call home.

Driving down the streets of my childhood brought back so many forgotten memories. As I looked at the neighborhood where I had spent so many years growing, learning, and longing to get away from, I become conscious of the fact that no matter how far we travel away from home, we never truly leave.

I left home at the ripe old age of eighteen. Not by choice, but because I knew more than my mother did at the time. She felt it best that I put my great wealth of knowledge to use by caring for myself. Since her home had simply become a place that I sometimes stopped by to change clothes, voice my disdain at being treated like a child.

That first time that I moved, I had nothing to carry with me other than my seemingly endless amount of clothes and make-up. Actually, the only thing that I took with me that first night was my wounded pride and being thrown out of my mother’s house over some slight misunderstanding that I felt at the time had nothing to do with me.

I moved into my brother’s one bedroom apartment with him and his new wife for the first week, as they tried to convince me on how wrong I was in the situation. Since I already knew the answers to life at the wise old age of eighteen, there was no way possible that my mother could be right in her decision. Suddenly full of newfound eighteen-year-old pride, I refused to apologize but opted instead to become even more independent and move in with my grandmother.

Living with my grandmother did give me more freedom, or so I had assured myself. Yet, there was something missing from life that I couldn’t quite put my finger on. Could it be that I couldn’t bring myself to argue with my grandmother about anything? She and my great-grandmother treated me like a ten-year-old.

I would cringe at the thought of “back-talking” my grandmother. So instead, I continued to work and save money so that one day, I could move once again. That day came just over a year later.

I had found a furnished studio apartment that was half the size of my current bedroom at my grandmothers, but who cared? It would be mine. My very own place to live, out from under the watchful eyes of my nosy, albeit loving female family members.
Once again, with clothes and make-up in hand, and very little else, I moved. My little studio apartment became my first real stab at trying to be independent and on my own.

I was in for a rude awakening when I realized that I was the one who had to pay my own bills. I didn’t have the extra cash flow that had once been the source of my joy as I continued to build my closet instead of a bank account. Not only that, I now had to learn to cook for myself.

Ah, but the thrill of being an adult, making my own decisions, coming and going as I pleased, was heaven! Or so I thought. As the months progressed, I realized that I had no idea what it took to be a responsible adult.

There always seemed to be more bills than money coming in. Additionally, I was dating a musician who traveled a lot. For some strange reason, when he was in town, he actually must have thought we lived together. He spent constant nights at my place, eating my food, sleeping in my bed, driving my car; never contributing a dime to my existence. I did the only sensible thing a twenty-one year old could do in my situation. I moved home.

I had gained a new respect for my mother and her sense of responsibility. This time around, my mother and I seemed to get along much better. I tended to listen to her a little more and she treated me more like an adult.

I remained at home with my mother for a few more years. Life was good. Sure, I still had chores to do, but I didn’t have to pay any household bills. However, once again, I was free to shop for the latest in fashion to add to my already overwhelmed wardrobe collection.

Then one day, I announced to my mother that I was getting married. The young man that I had been dating had proposed and I accepted. I would prepare to move out of my mother’s house one last time or so I thought.

My father had died the year prior to me getting married. My brother, another sister, and I had all moved out on our own. The baby of the family, my youngest sister graduated and moved away to college. My mother’s house became a quiet and sometimes lonely place for the two remaining family members. My mother and my sister.

I would visit often and my mother and I would usually spend hours playing her favorite game. Backgammon. Then one day, my mother was gone. No longer would she be there to be my safe refuge in the storm. But her house would.

So once again, I find myself moving my clothes, make-up and a few extra things home. This time I bring my two sons; home to find refuge in the place that always offers shelter, comfort and a place to rest before the next move.