Everything was gone. Empty. They had ransacked my house by the time I got back from my college trip to New York and Connecticut, but I expected this to happen. My tía and tío had scheduled the movers to come during my trip, so not only was I traveling out of state for the first time by myself, but I left knowing it was the last time I would see my tía and tío’s house the way it was. The way it should be.
It was a summer of many changes. I am actually fond of change. I find it invigorating and interesting. Oftentimes I get bored with routine, but sometimes the change is not always welcome or not entirely happy. They were moving to a new house in Champions Forest. This was 30-45 minutes north of Northside, the location of the old duplex where I grew up next door to my tía and tío and will stay with my dad until I leave for college.
I missed the convenience of having them next door. Impromptu movies, going out to eat, and spontaneous trips to the grocery store were not an option anymore. As mundane as these things sound, they were sources of great fun for me. The car rides were often filled with warmth, laughter, conversations, and me filling in my family on all the academic and teeny-bopper drama circulating the halls of Carnegie Vanguard. I still see my tía and tío often, yet I mourn the ways things used to be.
That feeling became sharper when my dad was doing repairs and touch-ups on the old house to prepare it for lease. It is about 100 years old and was renovated when my tía and tío bought it. It had good bones. They remained unchanged, but the house’s outside did not. Instead of the warm mocha colors on the walls, courtesy of my tía’s traditional style, it had been replaced with white. A white too pure for snow, very bright. It didn’t look bad, but the mood had changed. With all the furniture out and the lighter colors, the house looked more spacious and had the air of a studio apartment. The once cozy house had become modern and cold.
I could see the ambience being perfect for someone who works downtown and needs an easy commute. I knew that leasing would be the logical thing to do, instead of leaving it a vacant time capsule. Although I am great friends with logic, who has been my companion for many years throughout my academic career, I don’t necessarily like it when it rears its ugly, pragmatic head into things that conflict with my emotions. Then again, who does?
My privacy was being invaded. Someone would stay here. Cook in the kitchen where I had learned to make carne guisada, my abuelita’s potato salad recipe, and the caldo de pollo my tía made to cure my annual back-to-school colds. Use the sink where I learned to wash dishes, standing on a chair at nine years old to reach the plates with pink dishwashing gloves too big for my little hands. Watch TV in the living room where we had family movie nights and routinely watched David Muir’s ABC World News Tonight during dinner. Sit in the dining area where I used to wrestle with algebra at the kitchen table. It was almost as if a visitor was going to overstay their welcome.
We had to take the smaller items the movers left to the new house. On these traffic-littered car rides taking the incidentals to the new house, I had some time to reflect. I loved the new house. It had a quaint, yet grander, feel. A cobblestone pathway to the front door led to the brass handrail of the stairs and an antique wooden table that welcomed people to the front of the house. It had a pool to boot, and my dog finally had a dream backyard that wouldn’t be possible in downtown. It was undeniable, obvious even, that the new house was indeed better than the older one, not to discredit my love for the old house.
I also realized that this move was a prelude to the transition that had been lingering on the horizon for the past four years. I had spent all of my life in preparation for this one thing, but as it is finally coming to fruition, the feeling can be both exciting and daunting. This is where the ambivalence I felt about the move stemmed from. Sometimes I resent my self-awareness, because then I become conscious of things I may not always want to face in the moment. I accepted that while both the transition to college and the move would be closing a chapter of my life, a new one would be written. More so than in the last one, I would be more in charge of its contents.
I still do miss staying at the old house, with its sandstone-colored brick walls and red stairs. Despite this, I am not so averse to leaving the old house as I was initially. It wasn’t being sold. It wasn’t being demolished. It was still mine, just in a different way, just as my childhood was still, and would always be, mine.
