The Mandelbear's Musings

I realized Saturday morning, after waking from a dream involving a moving van and a house that was sort of like the one I grew up in, that some of the grief and anxiety that I'm feeling now is for places. It's not at all surprising -- I couldn't possibly separate my memories of Colleen from memories of the places we've lived: Grand Central Starport, our st/rolls around the San Jose rose garden, the restaurants we frequented... Or my memories of my parents from the house in Norwalk, Connecticut where I grew up, the grape arbor, the apple trees, and the little brook that ran along one edge of the lot. That was replaced by a freeway interchange, sometime in the early '70s. Or Rainbow's End, in West Seattle.

Our homes were just as much characters in our stories as the people we lived with. I remind myself that it's okay to mourn for the ones I've lost. It feels as though I'm always leaving places just as I'm getting settled there. I'll be doing it again, too soon. I'm not ready. I rarely am.