It’s an unassuming brick ranch sitting on a tiny corner lot. The kitchen’s hardly big enough for a table but there’s a modest vegetable garden in the backyard and homemade flower boxes decorating the drafty windows. I’ve despised the outdated bathroom since the day we moved in but it, like the others, echoes with memories – emblems of the bittersweet commotion within – and the houses surrounding it burst with welcoming neighbors.
I curse the flooding basement and shrinking closets often and there are plenty of things I’d change about the décor if my wallet allowed it. It’s not a perfect house (does such a thing exist?) and I’ve been known to dwell on the imperfections, but the past two weeks have breathed unexpected life into “distance makes the heart grow fonder.”
We’ve been out of our house for days – eleven, to be exact (but who’s counting?) – because the carpet I’ve been complaining about for years is finally being replaced one blessed wooden plank at a time. I won’t miss the ugly pink fiasco in our master bedroom or the golden brown disaster in the baby’s nursery but lately I’ve been longing for the walls that enveloped them, Crayola masterpieces and all.
Home. I miss our home.
Family members have graciously taken us in and promised to love us even after we’ve trashed their living space with dollhouse furniture and littered their kitchen with vagrant Cheerios. It’s been a chaotic several days but we’re thankful the chaos has had a warm abode in which to unfold, as Team Overton does not fare well in hotel rooms.
I know the displacement is temporary and that it’s for an exciting and long-awaited purpose. I know we’re lucky to have unlimited work time and even more lucky to have people willing to house us while that work time ensues.
Still, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a tiny bit disoriented – a tiny bit homesick for my shrinking closets and drafty windows.