Accompanied by Grief: Place

One of the recurring themes of grieving Mom is the loss of a sense of "place" in Ohio. Mom's house, where you could show up anytime, just as you were, plop on the couch, and be asked, "What would you like to eat?" I slept so well in her house. The worst of times were experienced there. At my brother's funeral time, I couldn't sleep and got up to sit on the couch. Mom and Dad came to sit on either side of me as we tried to face what had come to our family. Dad took his last breath in the bedroom, surrounded by his family. The undertaker's gurney couldn't navigate the hallway, so Ron and I helped carry him to the hearse. The night Mom died, I stayed there by myself. I left her sewing machine light on. The best of times were had in that house as well. Hours of playing with grandbabies on the avocado green shag carpet that was older than God. I spent the two weeks before my wedding there with Mom, getting ready and making a daily run to the Doughbox bakery with 2 year old Ethan. 

Rationally I know one can't keep a house as a museum to visit and recall a sense of home. In fact, working together with my siblings to clear out and divide up her things was oddly therapeutic. We spent a week working, and after we all took some things, we invited the relatives in Sunday evening for popcorn, so everyone could take a dish or something they wanted to remember Arlene. She sure would  have enjoyed being physically there with us. Mom used to talk with me about the end, "Oh, you guys will have a heyday when it comes time to clean out this house!" To which I would reply, "Please start paring down?" We'd laugh, but the memory of the 4 months of work to clean out Aunt Fern's house hung just behind the conversation, at least for me. 

Mary Lou and Levi, my aunt and uncle, have made us feel quite at home at their place when we visit. So, it's not that I don't have a "place" in Ohio, but with the loss of Mom's house, I've lost part of home. My brother owns her house now, and it's rented to some friends. They even let us see the remodel. Both the farmhouse where I grew up and the "grandma house" where Mom and Dad lived for 2o some years are on the same farm. The Zaerr relatives always liked to gather at Mom's house, in part because they were remembering when my grandparents made it their home. One cousin visited every summer with her children to stay in the house that was so grounding in her life. I understand them better now. Many people never get to visit the place they once were at home, so I'm lucky. The house is there, but the sense of home is not. So I guess we visit places in our memories, where we go to visit our loved ones who made a place a home.