The kids and I are in the United States, New Jersey to be precise, visiting my parents for the first time in a year. It's the longest we have gone without seeing each other for 10 years. It felt like forever.
Having lived in New Mexico for several years, and London for 15 years, our relationship depends upon phone calls and trans-Atlantic flights. It was difficult for a long time to be that far away from family, but it got easier over time, and then it got harder again after I had the children. No one around for me, to celebrate American holidays, Jewish holidays or birthdays. No one to give a squeeze of support, a cuddle to my kids, or to catch my eye when something strikes us as funny or strange...that secret language that families have. No one to bring me soup when I'm sick, drop over just to say hi or babysit overnight so my husband and I can have a night (or weekend) away. I am well aware that it has been a bitter pill for my parents, whose 4 grandchildren all live thousands of miles away. We do our best; speaking often and loving each other alot. I chose to make my home in England with my British husband, but living so far "away from home" hasn't always been easy or without some regret.
Recently my parents moved, after nearly 40 years in the house in which I grew up. It's only a mile or so from that house, so all of the surroundings are familiar. The new house is bigger than I expected, but the outside space is much smaller. There's no room for ball games, swings, hide and seek, angels in the snow, vegetable and flower gardens or a private corner for contemplation. It's in one of those communities with an entrance, though thankfully not gated, where many of the houses are attached to 1 or 2 others and all share a similar look. The loss of a huge backyard has to be balanced against the presence of a shared pool and tennis court in the neighbourhood. Compensation enough for some, perhaps, but both the kids and my father feel hemmed in and ambivalent about the trade-off.
The strange thing for me is the absence of complete ease. Not convenience; the house has everything anyone could want. Not aesthetic pleasure, because inside it's individual, beautiful and comfortable. It's more about that feeling of complete relaxation that comes with a lifetime of familiarity. It doesn't feel like home. When I say that, I feel a little flip of the tummy, because in all the 20 years I have lived away from my parents, I have continued to call these visits my "going home." Why? I didn't have relationships with any of the neighbours anymore, didn't have any of my own possessions there and didn't want to go back. I was able to let go of the things that they decided to sell, knowing that it would be illogical to hold on to them for me or ship them abroad.
It doesn't matter really. It's no longer my house; it's about what my parents want and need. I have my own house, my home, 3,000 miles away. In the end, my parents will always represent home to some extent and it will be alright for all of us. It doesn't feel like home...yet, but it's growing on me.
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