13 April 2014

Home in Portland

I've lived in the same house for about 95% of my entire life. The walls are familiar. I can pick out the carpet stains. The furniture is worn with years and years of my life. No matter how many places I've followed Hector to, this house is my home. The tree in the front yard? My dad planted that one for me. The multi-colored bedrooms? I had an obsession with green and yellow. It will hurt to leave this house.

But this is just a house. It's my childhood home, yes, but what makes it so are the people and the things inside of the walls. I could have grown up exactly the same in the house next door. I could have lived in 40 houses and still turned into the same overgrown child I am today. I'm making peace with my house. I'm making my peace with Portland as I prepare to say good-bye to her.

These are the tiny details I thought I could never be without. I thought I would not survive without my beloved home in Portland. That old fan- had the same one my ENTIRE life. That Yosemite picture hung above my bed as a toddler and it hung above my son's crib. That flying pig is an inside family joke. The dinner plates that my grandfather gave to my mother. The cookbooks and the scrapbooks that I spent hours thumbing though. That copper Aztec calendar was Hector's Goodwill find. My mom's blue glass obsession always had led to conversations with newcomers to the house explaining how we aren't really alcoholics.

But now, as I get closer and closer to the day in which I leave Portland forever pretty much, I am excited. It's like I have a new outlook as I prepare to leave. This house is just a building to me anymore. My home is wherever my family is, and right now, my immediate family, my husband and my son, are in Tijuana. That is where my home is, and I'm not even there yet. I love this place, and it will always be magical to me, but I am ready to see what magic will unfold for me as I migrate my way south of the border.

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