I had a dream about old shoes that my mom kept neatly arranged in my closet at home.
A moment ago, I felt like I haven’t felt in a long time. I felt what it was like to have money. The feeling washed over me tonight in an amalgam of memories.
I googled my old neighborhood and took a drive down memory lane. I found the place where my brother taught me to drive. In the back streets of Preston Hollow. The images were taken in winter. I felt good. I’d forgotten what those roads felt like. I wanted to go home. I want to go home.
But I’m here in a nice home with a nice job that keeps me medicated on anti anxiety medication. I paint a lot and plan the landscape that I’ll create in my backyard—one stone at a time. One stone a paycheck. Maybe two.
The little girl might have to have another surgery. We’ll know in a few weeks. But her academics have improved. Athletics doesn’t monopolize her time anymore. She applied to only one university, following in the footsteps of her sister. She’s in. It was expected. It was a guaranteed admittance. But I’m proud of her for working for the honor. The older one is going to Galveston in the spring. Or College Station if she hears back soon enough. Either way, she’s going to do well. No matter what, those two girls are bits of me doing what I didn’t.
I miss home.
And I’m not going to link that in anyway to the state of economic hardship in America. In the world. I can’t deny the foundation of my identity. I can deny the ones who selfishly take and abuse power, though.
I didn’t come here to discuss that. My rant is frozen in disgust. I didn’t come here to marinate in negativity.
I came here to pour onto a page a feeling of comfort. To document that despite the good things in my life, I am suffering from constant anxiety. And that in the midst of my chaos, I had a moment of comfort.
I miss those cold winter roads and big old trees and warm old houses with green shag carpet. Most of those mansions aren’t so opulent on the inside. And their inhabitants are just people who prefer to stick with old pretty things. The smells are of old polished wood and rugs and pot roast. And cookies. And I miss it all.
And why did we ever move.
My mom took the scent with her. I don’t have a room though. And she didn’t keep my shoes.
But she did keep my art and silly playdough figures. I’m thankful for that.