I haven’t ever been the type of person to become unreasonably attached to objects. It’s just stuff, after all, and stuff is easily replaced. After the house fire, sure, I had twinges of regret at the things I’d lost — thousands of dollars in technology being the main one, and the most understandable, because those things are what we would spend the most money replacing in the following months. But even the loss of more irreplaceable things, like photos from my childhood, or the entire body of artwork I created in college, or Ben’s letters from basic training, only upset me a little. I wouldn’t even call it all the way “upset.” More like… mildly disappointed. It was still just “stuff,” after all, and while it sucked to lose things like that, it wasn’t the end of the world and life would go on.
There were two things, however, that were a round-house kick in the gut to lose. The first is logically kind of silly, but I’m an emotional sort of person, so you can suck it if you think it’s dumb: my stuffed tiger, Cuddles, that I’d received as a Christmas present at the age of eight and slept with almost every night since. Yes, out of everything that I lost in the fire, the second-most important thing to me was a stuffed animal. I guess the easiest way to explain it is this: many people, growing up, have a beloved pet that they’d gotten when it was a baby. It grew up with them, was always there and, a lot of times, was almost part of the family. Growing up in the country, we didn’t have an animal like that. We always had dogs and usually had a cat or two, but the average life span was about two years. (I did have one dog to whom I, personally, got extremely attached, but he disappeared several years before the fire.) So that constant, that comfort that I could always cling to and cry into, well, that was Cuddles. It was more than just having something to throw my arm around at night — a pillow would have served that same purpose, and if that’s all it was I would have stopped sleeping with him when I moved in with Ben. (…Wow, would that sound horrible taken out of context.) Of course, as a kid I dragged him around almost everywhere, and played with him and that sort of thing. But even as an adult I rarely went to sleep anywhere without Cuddles, and I’d often snuggle up with him while watching TV or reading. Okay, after writing all that out, I see that I probably had an unhealthy attachment to him. But regardless, losing him was almost as bad as losing a beloved pet. I understand that he was little more than a shaped pillow, just fabric and stuffing — but I still physically miss him when I lay down to go to bed at night, or when I’m curled up to watch TV or read. For Christmas, Ben got me a stuffed tiger, which was incredibly sweet of him and I almost cried when he gave it to me. But it’s just not the same — how could it be? Don’t get me wrong; I greatly appreciate the gift, and it says tons about Ben’s thoughtfulness. But it’s not Cuddles. Even if, by some miracle, I happened to find a tiger identical to Cuddles (and trust me, I looked; I’m pretty sure they don’t make them anymore) it wouldn’t be the same.
The object that was the most difficult loss for me was the house itself. It was over a century old and definitely showed its age. It had practically no insulation in the walls, the linoleum flooring was coming up in several places, the wiring was wonky (which was what caused the fire), and the roof was leaky. It wasn’t always like that, though. Once upon a time it was a beautiful house, and even when my parents got older and unable to keep it up as well as they had in the past, it was still home.
And that tree. I will never forget that tree, and its bark, and - and -
It was always supposed to be there for me to go back to, no matter where in the world I ended up or how old I got. Again, I know that isn’t quite logical, but I don’t care. I just never considered that it might not be there anymore. We moved there when I was two, and it’s the only place I’ve ever really considered home. I can still remember it as clearly as though I were standing there now. There were countless meals eaten at the big table in the dining room — we had dinner there almost every night when I was growing up, and often breakfast on Saturday and Sunday mornings. It was where everyone sat to just enjoy each other’s company, and several times I stormed away from it in a teenage temper tantrum. The table, like the house, was several years old and had its fair share of scratches, dents, and dings. My dad always talked about refinishing it, but just never got around to it.
The doorway between the kitchen and dining room had marks all up and down it from where we measured heights every year (sometimes a few times a year, depending on the age of the kid being measured). Almost all of us had a few lines on that doorway with our names and ages next to them. My sisters’ lines were the oldest, the newest ones coming along with the births of my nieces and nephews. The kitchen floor was scuffed from years of cooking and washing up; once I was older I’d often stand in the kitchen doorway to keep my mom company while she cooked, and to be available to help if she needed it. (This wasn’t often — my mom was always the sort to consider you more “in the way” than “helpful” when she was in the kitchen.) I’ll never forget the smell of the wood heater in the winter, or sitting out on the porch with my parents on muggy summer nights, or watching lightning storms from the porch swing.
And washing clothes on the front porch, apparently.
There’s something about “home” that just takes hold of your heart and doesn’t let go. It doesn’t make a lick of sense, but it’s there, and strong, nonetheless. I’ve come to realize since the fire that “home” isn’t a house, but the people in it — when I go see my parents we still have a good ol’ time cramped up around the tiny table in the travel trailer where they’re staying until the new house is built. But home is memories, too, and my strongest memories of home will always be in that house.
YOU WILL NEVER BE AS GOOD, NEW HOUSE. NEVER!
Like this:
One blogger likes this post.
