I had this crazy urge to blog, i’m on a bus that just left Kingston en route to Toronto so this stirkes me as rather absurd.
As most things in my life seem to these days.
My dad dad passed away at 1:24pm on Feb 28th 2015 and that was the catalyst of a massive shitstorm that left myself and several people I care about emotionally devestated and simotaniously crippled at the same time.
This isn’t about that though.
This is about the house.
My dad’s hosue specifically, my childhood home.
I don’t begrudge my mom for selling the place, in fact if I was in her shoes I would do the same.
Yet, I feel lost in a way.
Yes, it’s just a house, but it was the house that everyone knew.
More importantly, it was the only house that *I* knew.
I came home from the hospital to this house and my tiny room upstairs was always mine, even when I shared it with my sister for many years.
No matter how crazy my life would get, there was always the big white house on King street that everyone knew and it was the place that I would always come to when I would make the long trek from
Montreal to Ontario. No matter where I was, no matter what I was doing or what shape I was in, there was always a place for me there..
So many memories contained within those walls…