Boarders, Volume 6

home-sold-signWell, the house finally closed.

I guess maybe I was harboring some kind of fantasy that as long as it hadn’t closed yet there was still some chance this wasn’t “home,” that we could slip back into our former life like an old suit of clothes, worn in and faded, but comfortable. But it closed the day before Halloween, and on that holiest of nights we were in the neighborhood getting treats. There were lights on inside, and people moving about. It’s not ours anymore.

We live here now, and there’s no going back.

So what’s going on here? Well, things are getting marginally better. We’re settling into a kind of routine that is part-patience, part-convenience, and it takes skill to know what times are convenient to do what we want to do, and which times we need to be patient and wait for those convenient times. For example, I was here after school yesterday, and no one else was in the house, so I got as many clothes washed as I could, knowing that there would be no more convenient time to get them done. And then the patient times, like when I haven’t put on my slippers and all hell breaks loose.

Note to self: always take off shoes and put on slippers when entering the house.

But we’re boarders, and tiptoeing the line is important to keep thinking about. Whereas before, when I needed a moment to exhale I would be in a place where I could do that without repercussions, here I am in a place where I need to telegraph my every move beforehand, and where I have no place to escape. On Tuesday night I drove down to the town barn to vote, and on a whim I just kept on driving to the next town over — which has a Stewart’s — and enjoyed the night, with my window down, and my music on. It was great to be spontaneous. I miss being spontaneous.

So I figure I’ll map in those times to just get out and enjoy myself. I guess I might just join a bowling league so I don’t go absolutely insane with all the tiptoeing around I’m forced to do here. And I understand. It’s somebody else’s house, somebody else’s floors, somebody else’s patterns and routines, and I need to fit into them. But I don’t want to “fit” here. I like knowing that this is transitory, that in a few short months we will be on to the next phase of our adventure, to a place where I can scream and retreat when I’m frustrated, because it will be ours.

Until then, though, another drive (or 20) to Stewart’s just for the fun of it seems to be in order.

Sam

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