My mom has sold her house and is moving out in a couple of weeks. It’s odd to write ‘her’ house since it’s always been either ‘our’ or ‘their.’ My dad started building it the year I was born, 1949, and I lived there till I was 16 and then summers till I was 21.
I had coffee with her yesterday and I walked around before I left, fully cognizant that this might be the last time I’d ever be in it. The memories came flooding back and after I left, I drove around the neighborhood a bit to experience more of the same. And I’ve decided I’ve got to go back one more time, maybe with a tape recorder, maybe with a camera, and maybe better yet, with my brother. He and I walking around together would really trigger the memories. I wonder what I’ll learn?
She didn’t have dad’s urn at the house. My brother has it. I think I’ll stop today and pick it up.
In two weeks there’s a memorial mass for him at St. Peter’s Catholic Church in Mendota. I spent a good chunk of my life at that church and adjoining school, so that’ll be another memory flood. Maybe I’ll take the whole day off to immerse myself.