I’m sleep deprived. It’s now summer, so I stay up even later than before, because I don’t have to do anything in the morning. I just stay filling the room up the clicking and clacking of the keyboard while everyone sleeps.
I’ve been thinking a lot lately about my family. We’re kind of like gypsies you could say. We move around a lot, but stay close to our own. Everything in my house is old. There are dream catchers that were my great grandmother’s, my grandmother’s urn which is now empty, sewing machines that were my mom’s great grandmother’s, my grandfather’s sunglasses, candle sticks that were a wedding present to a great aunt, the silver bow my grandmother left me, old old records, painting my grandmother brought back from china, old Irish money, witches ladders that are frayed and falling apart, portraits of aunts and uncles that died long before I was born.. All kinds of things that fit together yet don’t. It makes me feel comfortable, but at the same time it makes me sad. It makes me miss the house before moving around. The house that was a home. Were I played when I was little, were I felt like I belonged, were things were simple. I know it all sounds corny, but it’s the truth. I miss things being predictable and quaint. When we moved that first time I was about five, and I remember crying when I say all the things we owned pack up into a truck and sent away. Moving still has that affect on me. It’s as if I feel like my life is being quantified by the amount of things I have, but all I have are broken things from dead people that can fit into the back of a pick up.
I guess it’s more quality than quantity.
Crash Skratchfairy Community Member 
|
|
