the past

From the age of a-bit-under-four to the age of a bit over thirty eight this house was my home. At the beginning I was not old enough to know and at the end I no longer lived there. But it was always home.

I see this picture and I still see home. My father and mother rented this house and I assume someone else now rents it. I will never go back in there. I'll never go through that gate and walk down that path into the back garden, where I will never open the back door, turn right into the kitchen and make myself a cup of tea. It is now, I suppose, someone else's home.

I own two houses and a flat in Australia. None of them feel like my home. The very nice house I now live in is the house I will bring my first (and if Sal does not change her mind my only) child home to. When that child, named "Elvis" because the expected birthday is that of the King (aside; we are ignoring the lack of apparent knob on the scan when we use that most male of names) is old enough to ask about nan and grandad on my side...what will I say? My memories are easier to feel than to articulate. There is very little physical matter to hang those memories to.

I grew up with both maternal and one paternal grandparent. I had a keen sense of both sides of my family. On my side of the family and the other side of the world Elvis has got a single uncle plus Auntie Ruth. I wonder what that will be like? Of course, on Sal's catholic side of the family will be hundreds of relatives.

Weird huh?