An old house, but a new home.
A quiet house, free of creaky floors and clunky plumbing.
A house on a wide street, isolated from noisy kids and neighbours.
A warm house, with uniform heat and warm walls and floors.
A house that is "ours" and not "theirs".
A legacy for Colleen. For her future, and for Ivy.
A house we can be proud of.
An old house, but a new home.
Buying a house is a stressful process. I won’t tell you otherwise. But still, I think there ought to be some room there for excitement, and even joy. I felt joy in the purchase of my house on Albert Avenue. That was fifteen years ago. It was in the aftermath of my escape from drugs and other addictions. I was excited about house hunting. When I found the place on Albert, I was thrilled. I couldn’t wait to get the keys. It was Christmas time. I bought a huge tree and decorated it and invited friends to a party. It was very exciting!
But not this time. This time it’s different. There’s too much going on. Moving my increasingly needy parents to long-term care was sad and emotionally draining. Moving Ivy home from college felt similar, although not to the same extent. And of course, there’s always the grim spectre of my lung disease. That’s never far from my thoughts. An apartment full of belongings waits in Mt. Forest to be emptied and cleaned and prepared for a new occupant. A mountain of stuff waits here in this house to be sorted and boxed and taped and labeled. Some of it will not get boxed. Some of it will go directly into a garbage bin. Quite honestly, friends, I don’t feel excited about buying a home at all. What I feel, is tired. I feel as though I’ve been running for months without stopping, and with no end in sight.
***
