Monday, March 28, 2011

I want my trailer back.

March 24, Royse City.

Tavana and John Moss and Nikki and Carolyn and Mike have new digs, and so do we. We've got a new home and I hate it.
Well, not hate exactly, more like feeling adrift and missing my home, my trailer, and all the nooks and crannies that have made my life for almost ten years. Fridman wanted a motor home for the kids, so that we wouldn't have to take them out in the cold in the morning to sit them in the truck. We had seen one of don Sandro's used ones and liked it, so here we are.
It is a small class B motor home (it's much smaller than the trailer) that Fridman has been spicing up, building beds for the kids, painting, taking carpet out and curtains in, but all the goodies in the world won't make it home unless I want to and so far I don't, it's too new, too soon, away from home and then it's gone, I need time, time and maybe a lot of Dylan's art on the walls to anchor me in.
But there isn't any counter space in the kitchen, on top of it all. Not to mention the Trailer with a view series ("Motor home with a view"?)
I want my trailer back.

2 comments:

Anonymous said...

I understand. There was a paint store with a sign posted "Husbands may only choose colors with permission of their wife". Similar - wonderful intentions but a different point of view. It may take a little while to be home again.
Welcome back - we anonymous folks have missed your observations and wonderful pictures.
cc

Ellyn Rose said...

Its no closure and no choice.

In far less traumatic fashion, its like a death without a wake.

I hate such things. I've moved often in my adult life (which is to say that I've moved often for a someone not traveling with a circus.) With each move I try my best to somehow fit furniture, decorations and memories into my already cluttered mind.

I'm there. Lying on the floor of my bedroom, eyes closed; remembering. Standing where the couch once was. Sitting where the chair once was. Being who I once was, and hoping to be her again.

I wish you the ability to always make room for what was, and a way to make what is as good.