Blog: Bye, Bye House Part 2

(originally written 5/15/11)

Because of its’ size, dreary off-grey color, and concealment behind multiple tall trees, some of the locals were afraid of it. We never got Trick-or-Treaters; they’d blow right by our house like a Matt Cain fastball. A friend told me her brother, who collected for the local newspaper and was far from a wuss, was creeped out just by standing outside it. My grandma’s mega-collection of dolls would creep out my few friends who were brave enough to enter (they gave me nightmares, too.)

 

In addition, there was an attic and crawlspace that only one person in our family ever entered—he was never the same after coming out. And just last year I found a hidden laundry chute which neither me or my mom ever knew existed—it sure looked like a trapdoor at first glance…

 

Haunted or not, however, 1250 was home.

 

Until 2003, when I moved out at long last.

 

Every time I went back, the 1250’s condition continued to deteriorate, as did my grandma’s. We knew we wouldn’t keep the house once she passed, and we didn’t. For the last two years, my once-vibrant childhood home which was home to as many as seven people at one time sat vacant. So lonely and neglected that the white-and-red “For Sale” sign actually spruced it up a tad.

 

It was hard enough for me going back there during this period, but now that the sign has been removed and another family is going to make MY house THEIR house, I can’t bring myself to ever go past it again.

 

Ever.

 

Even though passing by it is the most convenient way from the freeway to my mom’s new place, I don’t care. It would hurt too much to see others doing for 1250 what my family could not. It would hurt too much to see some other kid putting his toys in my closet—especially if it hurts just thinking about it. It would be like seeing Carla with another guy, a “better” guy. (I later heard she was on the easy side, easing the pain of my unrequited love.)

 

It could well be that the reason I feel this way is that now that the house is gone, I cannot fail in life—when I moved out, I knew that if the real world ever spat on me, I could always return to the 1250 to lick my wounds. I always thought it’d be there forever; my uncle carved his name in the driveway, for goodness sake! But there is no longer a security blanket. My bed is no longer “waiting for me”. It’s almost like my first 23 years never even happened. I give you Skillz, 6’2”, 285 lbs, age 8.

 

One day, I will give my daughter a house to call her own. Somewhere she can paint her own walls, pick her own fruit, put up her own Christmas tree every year as I was fortunate enough to do. All the wiring and plumbing will work. The roof will not leak. The yard will be upkept.

 

And most importantly, no one will ever take it away from her.

Unless she pisses off the thing living in the attic…

Return To Part 1