Saturday, November 28, 2009

Rangeline Road

It's time to dash off to bed - up the familiar stairway, into the cooler air, behind the door that still falls open to precisely the same place.

I don't know what it is about being Home (the home of my youth) but it always brings my heart to its knees, at some point or another, with nostalgia as thick as honey.

It's a good thing. It's a bad thing.

It's a good thing.

Truth is, if "it" is left behind when this house sells - along with the floor creaks and the scent that is ours alone, I will miss it.

I am convinced that there is truth to be found in contemplation. I like attempting to unravel the mysteries of my life...the fact that there are mysteries about my life that even I cannot place in the proper columns.

My past and my present collide only here and it makes for a mind-spinning blend, especially when today's hour creeps into tomorrow's. I should know better than to stay up so late in this house that is so quiet. But honestly, this is where my night-owlish ways were born.

Is it possible that the girl who grew all gangly and bookish and opinionated and proud is the same girl sitting in this chair? Can the girl sitting in this chair, so pensive and and tender-hearted and stubborn and searching, really be the one who knows these walls by heart?

I am so different, and so unchanged. I hope the years have sanded off the edges and shined me up as to make the eyes of my heart clearer. I hope I have learned.

For now, I am warm from hot tea and the fireplace. My fingertips are still tangeriney. It's time to climb the creaky stairs, tiptoe past my beautiful babies and fall into my too-short bed where the man of my dreams is fast asleep.