The door never shuts on a childhood home
When the narrator of Margaret Atwood's new novel, "The Blind Assassin," revisits her childhood home as a young woman, she experiences a strange detachment.
As she explains, "I stood outside my house, my former house, waiting to have an emotion of any kind at all. None came." Then she adds, "I am not sure which is worse: intense feeling, or the absence of it."
In an age of mobility, houses come and go. Just check the jumble of crossed-out listings in any address book. But for many people a first house, like a first love, forever occupies a special place in the heart. An absence of emotions? Hardly.
A childhood home is, after all, a place where memories remain deeply imbedded. Here is the nursery where a newborn first slept. The dining room where three generations regularly gathered for Thanksgiving dinner. The living room where countless Christmas trees glowed brightly in the corner. The sidewalk where children played hopscotch and learned to ride bikes.
In time, most childhood homes become someone else's address, a place for a new family to stamp its imprint and create its own memories. For our family, that transition is beginning.
In a month or two, my father will leave the house in the Midwest that was my first home and will move to Boston to be with us. Sometime in the next week, a "For Sale" sign will go up on the lawn of the white two-story house that my grandparents built. Strangers will begin walking through the rooms, peering into closets, and traipsing from top to bottom, always with the question: Could this be our house?
Soon one family will answer "Yes" and move in. Perhaps a new generation of children will grow up here, forming their own distinct memories of childhood on this peaceful tree-lined street.