I think most people can claim that their story resembles some sort of sitcom. There is plenty of them around, and there is always a possibility that we find a character or situation with whom we can identify and relate. Sometimes episodes run beautifully and seamlessly together where the characters grow and change imperceptibly. Other times, season finales mark a clear ending, perhaps with a cliff hanger or some sort of unresolved event allowing for increased chatter amidst fans. I am reminded of the recent past where I was obsessed with “Dallas” watching episode after episode. Just the change in hairstyles is drastic enough to make one chuckle.

I love short stories. They allow me to divulge quickly and get a snapshot of an narrative episode without allowing my ADD to take over and send me on a trip to whereverland, where my mind is liberated to free associate and journey without the aid of illicit substances. I have always found reading books difficult, although with age, I am learning more and more the skills to get through them, as I find something extremely valuable in living with them for more than short story length.

Did you ever dream of writing the great “you” novel? I did. In the meantime, blogging allows me to talk too much in a variety of different directions.

Yesterday, I received some news that would constitute as a whole new chapter, perhaps a new volume, new season and episode: a new beginning. Not bad news, just news. In certain respects good news.

How well do you remember the homes in which you “grew up”? I use the term growing up loosely as we are consistently growing, changing, sometimes improving, sometimes taking steps back to regain grounding on fundamentals. I remember them well.

The last home in which I lived with my parents and sister was sold. My parents purchased this incredible home when I had already left for undergrad. I remember feeling quite anxious as I no longer had “my room.” I was not ready to be left out and forced out of the nest per se. I remember my father sweetly saying on a phone conversation that no matter where they moved, I would always have a room.

They gutted it, started and from scratch. The millwork is exquisite, the details breathtaking, and the setting, undeniable unique and unreplicable.I returned to this home in between my Bachelor and Masters degrees, and spent a year contemplating my next steps. It is the home that I looked forward to returning on my visits. After all, my “room” is still there, even though it didn’t look the same.

So I no longer have a “home” back “home” that holds memories of years past, and the transition is quite bittersweet. Of course, our concept of what feels like home changes with time. Whether our dorm room through undergrad starts feeling more ourselves than our previous bedroom, my first apartment, and now having the privilege of already owning my first home. Yes, we all know that special people make the feeling of “home” but I am unable to separate the physical surroundings, especially when they were so beautiful.

The things I remember in this home:

1. -My sisters engagement party and seeing my dad getting extremely intoxicated with joy amidst other beverages.
   

2. -The bris of my first nephew and my parents first grandchild
   

3. -Receiving a phone call from Rice University offering me a spot in their Master’s degree
   

4. -Painting the exterior back porch a cheerful countryside yellow with mom
   

5. -Practicing flute hours on end in the gorgeous art studio overlooking the ravine

   

   
   

6. -My mother’s 60th surprise birthday party
   

7. -Sleepless nights watching chick flicks in the media room
   

8. -Meaningful conversations with mom in the living room and with dad in the study
   

9. -Watching my sister reinvent her room, over and over again
   

10. -Spending the last few days of our cat Vincent before he passed
    

11. -Cooking and fighting over cooking
    

12. -Coming home and scouting for changes, new decorative pieces, improvements and wall colors
    

It makes one wonder about the next owner’s. Will they have similar memories? Will they take care of the home that holds so many special memories? It is strange to think I will no longer be able to knock on the door, come in, and continue where I left off.

If those walls could talk....