My dachshund Zoey moved in with my dad on Oct. 16, 2009. Ironically enough, she’ll be moving in with me this Saturday on Oct. 16. Zoey lived with me for a few months, but my mom, who I had been living with for a year by then, no longer wanted to dog sit while I went to work.
I have lived with my mom and brother for two years, but it’s probably time for me to move out. I want to have my own kitchen, plus I’ll feel more grownup being in my own place. I moved home twice right after college while I was between jobs, but this time was for a longer haul given the uncertainty of possible layoffs where I worked.
Yesterday, I started packing, and I felt sentimental.
I’m going to miss my basement bedroom that feels totally closed off from the rest of the world with only a small window with two pillows on the ledge to block out the sunlight. I’m going to miss the time I had with my mother, spending time together on the weekends doing errands, getting dinner and going out to coffee. I will miss her hugs and just talking with her about my life and hers, as well as religion and politics, topics off limits at work and during most casual encounters.
I’m going to miss the house where I grew up and the neighborhood with the memories I find when I go on walks. I’m going to miss home-cooked food and sitting on the back porch when my dad does a barbecue during his visits.
As I begin to miss this place that I lived most of my years, I can pack up my memories with everything I’m putting into boxes and take this period of time with my family to my new place, my heart stronger knowing that I come from a home, not a house, a place, an address. I can have home in my heart wherever I go.