I’ve known a man who said he doesn’t believe in owning a house. That he’s okay with renting a place for years and years, but he can leave whenever he wants — no commitment.
But now that it was time to leave, to move on to a new place after years and years of building memories in a house he had spent a decade with, you can see the sorrow.
It was a silent whisper in every breath, a slight crook at the corner of his eyes who tried to keep himself together.
“I thought this would be where I would die,” he said one evening.
He’s an old man, you see.
But while other grownups yearn to own a house, he doesn’t buy into the idea.
Perhaps he stopped believing in building a home with somebody he loved long ago.
A broken heart, a broken marriage, a broken soul.
But now that it is time to leave, you see his sorrow.
I saw his sorrow.
He even said that he’s trying to keep himself from being depressed.
I may not know this man for who he really is, but I understand what it feels like to say goodbye to memories slipping away from your grasp.
Because we’d like to think that memories live in a place.
Sure, they do.
But as I put myself to think about all these things, I realized on another occasion that you don’t just leave memories behind.
You bring a copy of them with you.
Yes, you bring them with you.
But it would be nice to be settled in one place too, and be it the last place you give out your last breath.
It would be like going home from home.
jessa 