“HOUSES are easy to move into…but homes are harder because you carry those with you.” These lines, I only read somewhere, but surely, they pretty much capture what’s on everyone’s mind when they think (and sing) of their old home. That might sound a lot like Michael Buble-ish to some out there, but in fairness, his lyrics got it right.
Further down where I read the script from, there’s also a mention of how we spend many years of our lives moving about and transferring to various places, transitioning from one job to another, and all the while developing, nurturing and losing relationships.
It’s during these many significant milestones that a question arises as to why, in almost every new place and every relationship, the sense of not being complete comes up all over again. Without knowing it, we might have merely pushed that feeling into the background, so that it had never really left.
Then, no matter how objectively we try to frame it, we can’t just lay the blame on our new location or new things. The same goes with the new people who pop up in our lives. Deep down, we know they are not the source of whatever emptiness we feel. Because, like our honored idea of home living in our head, that lingering bit of loneliness lives with us as well. Like grief, it only lies in wait.
Alas, for our family, the house where memories of home reside still exists. But most of us in the family, like all other families anywhere, have already moved elsewhere. Unlike those whose original houses may have given way to the path of development or for whatever reason, the old ancestral home still stands on the hill it was built on. Only my remaining sister and one of her children live there now.
No matter, while that house of our childhood remains, our rich memories of the home that it was to us stay fresh always. Within its many rooms and walls, the spirits of those who have gone ahead give the house its own unique aura.
With every step inside, a diorama of past scenes appears to play back, and one is again instantly back in the past. Countless names and faces, both family and close-by neighbors, reside in its halls, and I’m right away imagining the countless nights of mahjong sessions presided over by our grandpa.
In the main sala, the venue of all official Christmas family photo sessions, the sofas await the coming of weekend arrivals by family members who come to visit. Meanwhile, as one turns to go and look back at the gate, the energy of the old home waves back. You never really left.
