Saying goodbye to ###

Author's Note: I wrote this in February 2022 as a reflection on the house in which the bulk of my growing up happened; for additional context and updates, see the Postscript at the end of the piece.

Every home - not necessarily every house, but every home - has defining characteristics that distinguish it from others. 486 - our parents’ home, the home I did the majority of my growing up in, the home I returned to when it was time to give birth to my 1st son, the place I am now as I type these words, and which in a few short months will no longer be a place that is ours - is no exception to this rule. Entering the home, at first sight or even smell, you might think you know what it is: 

• the preponderance of elegant Japanese art and furniture - the black & white Yoshitoshi Mori reproductions of samurai made by our grandfather, and ornately carved wooden tonsu in the living room, for example: evidence of our father’s childhood in Japan and the many years that our father and mother lived there together, eventually welcoming me and then my younger brother into the world; 

• or the many, swarthy Jesuses - a reflection of our mother, the minister’s, affinity for Eastern Europe and Russia, and therefor for Eastern Orthodox representations of Jesus -- closer in appearance to the Black Mary, Joseph & baby Jesus painted on a repurposed and worked section of steel drum brought back by me from Ayiti, now hanging in the kitchen above the sink, than to the more popular (in this country) representation of Michaelangelo’s uncle as Jesus; 

• or the smokey remnants of fire in our three fireplaces, around which on more than 1 occasion, but not nearly enough, my children and I have coaxed new stories out of our parents (recorded for posterity on my phone) and other new revelations between old friends have been uncovered; 

• or maybe simply the thick smell of many smoked cigarettes - a smell that reminds me of our late grandmother’s home - sometimes accented by candles or curry, or other strong fragrances. 

These are all part of this home’s charm or, where ‘charm’ doesn’t fit, uniqueness. 

But to really meet this home, you need to stay well after dark. I know, I know: this is the part you think I’m going to talk about ghosts. But I’m not; I’m going to talk about rodents. 

Before I describe what these rodents are, let me describe what they’re not. 

• They aren’t pets. 

• I don’t imagine they’re lil and cute - they sound straight up wild when they get to scrambling around late at night and there have actually been times, particularly when our little sister and my older son and I were up late watching scary movies, when we’ve earnestly questioned if these creatures were going to burst out of the wall or ceiling. 

• We didn’t bring them here - our home is not some funky rodentia sanctuary - and we don’t necessarily want them here. 

And yet, yeaaaaaaars after my little sister, son & I first heard them late one night, screeching around so loudly that we mistook them for someone walking around upstairs, they are still here. 

How is this possible? Is the house abandoned? Are our parents incapacitated? No. It’s true: our father has far few teeth than he used to, and our mother has had to adapt to chronic upper back pain. But between the two of them, they get a lotta shit done, including since the rodents made their presence known:

• They’ve taken separate trips to abroad and trips together to visit family in Virginia, New York & Boston

• Gotten vaccines amidst the COVID-19 pandemic

• Hosted Christmases

• Driven all over the country to work Moto GP races

• Filed taxes and fought the IRS

• Sold one property, and bought another

• Fixed cars

• Most importantly, they’ve welcomed new grandchildren into the world. 

And this is definitely a lived-in home. our mother’s domain is on the third floor; our father’s is on the 2nd; and they share it all and the downstairs with whoever else is visiting - me, my kids, our sisters and their families, our brother and his, etc. 

Along with different floors, there have been many differing opinions between our parents over their long years of marriage. They definitely don’t see eye-to-eye on everything. They clash. A lot. The rose bushes in the yard that somehow got uprooted along with weeds when our mother paid people to do yard-work while our dad was out of town. Our father’s practice of leaving the door unlocked, much to the chagrin of our mother. The various collector’s items / clutter that our mother has thrown out / recycled / given away ‘to the vet’rans’, against our father’s wishes or without his knowledge and consent. And don’t get me started on their differing attitudes about what my mother would call “better living through chemistry” and my father would call the “medical/pharmaceutical industrial complex.” 

Amidst all of this, though -- different floors, in some cases wildly differing attitudes - the rodents were never banished. And this, this, is why I think I have a soft spot for the lil critters. Because they represent a point of convergence - a somewhat radical point of convergence - among the two people that love all 4 of us siblings deeply and raised 3 of us. Amongst their sometimes wacky, sometimes heart-stopping battles - our mother’s ‘liberation speech’ she woke us up with one school day morning when I was in the 12th grade, before calling the high school to announce that neither I nor our brother would be there because our family of "creative geniuses" would not be subjected to the school system's Draconian attendance (and other) policies; our father being hauled off by the police one night because one too many of their arguments had gone too far; my mother feeding my father’s cell phone to our little sister’s dog - they found a way to support us, and to support each other, in ways that other people likely wouldn’t. 

Though our parents have lived like this - differing attitudes, different floors - for a looooong time, with the sale of this house they will officially be putting even more distance between them: our mother moving a few miles away to the apartment building next door to the middle school 3 of the 4 of us attended; our father moving hundreds of miles further south - a short ride away from where big sis lives. The thought of them moving evokes many emotions, including a little bit of worry for both of them - but mostly for dad -- and for the rodents. 

Sometimes you think you know people - think you’ve gotten them all figured out - but you don’t. The same, I suppose, can be true of a home. 

What will I miss the most? Those fucking rodents. Literally. They might be fucking. We’ve joked about it because the noises they make are so raucous. Squirrel soccer game, raccoon bacchanal or some other variety of orgy. We don’t really know what the hell is going on ‘up there’ - up there, if you’re sitting in the living room downstairs, particularly in the corner close to the TV room a.k.a. the cold room (you guessed it, because it’s cold AF in there), or ‘down there’ if you’re on the 2nd floor in our father’s study which, ever since he took the load of furniture including his bed down to his new home in Virginia, has become more like his everything (minus his other favorite place: the garage).

No, I won’t miss the threat of a gang of rodents falling through the ceiling onto my head or into my lap, or of any of the other permutations of what could go wrong in the cohabitation with these creatures that our siblings and kids and I have joked about. (I have the occasional mouse in Boston to contend with, if we wanna get real about it.)

No. What I will miss is what these little critters symbolize: the amazing parents we have, who unlike so many people out there actually practice “live and let live”, and who know that the United States ain’t it, and who were courageous enough to raise us to follow our spirits rather than forcing us into the figurative cages so many of our peers are confined to.  

The night after I started writing this, the rodents miraculously had a truly silent night. I found myself wondering and even worrying about them. Had they gone somewhere in this bitter February cold? Had they left because they somehow knew I was writing about them?! That's when I realized I actually will miss them. The rodents, I mean. Because they've been here so long that they are part of us now. Just like anyone else who walked through those doors (or climbed in somehow, I guess) more than once. 

I know our mother will NOT miss the rodents when she sleeps in her clean, well-kept apartment for the first time. I wonder, though, if she will think of our father, and the world of possibility she saw in his eyes when they first met and fell in love. I wonder if she ever in her wildest dreams imagined that it would lead to the amazing if sometimes crazy life that they have built - and endured - together: rodents and all. 

I am not mad or upset that our parents are physically separating. I think it’s the best for both of them. Our mother will stay close by, but have the literal and figurative space to tend to her own needs without having to look after anyone else - human or otherwise - after decades of tending to others. Our father will have a warmer more hospitable climate, lower cost of living yet a space large enough to be our point of reunion, and will be closer to our older sister, our aunts and uncles and cousins - all family that technically belong to our mother, but whom our father has chosen as his. He’ll even have a fancier garage. 

I wish for both of them that they find what they are seeking in this movement. And I wish for all of us the world where everyone’s home is like ours: a home where, even if there are fights, and different floors, and sometimes people don’t speak, there is solidarity in a radically different way of being. And everyone belongs. Even the rodents.

Postscript: I wrote this in February 2022 as a reflection on the house in which I grew up for the bulk of my elementary school years and all of middle and high school, barring formative travel experiences. But as I wrote it, it also became a tribute to my parents and the home - literally and figuratively - they gave us. Our parents raised us to think critically - including about them and their parenting, which is reflected in this piece; however they did not raise us to glorify them exaggeratedly, which is also reflected in this piece. To balance that out and the impression this reflection may leave on those who do not know my parents or my relationship with them, I want to clarify the following: they also gave us many, many joyous and enriching memories and experiences; I am eternally grateful for the sacrifices that they have made individually and collectively to empower me to live my Purpose, and; I have profound respect and admiration for the courage, faith and love they have shown me, especially in light of how demanding I imagine the job of parenting a daughter like me must be. I was hoping to share this reflection half-way between Mother’s Day and Father’s Day in order to honor both of them; the proximity to Father’s Day should not be interpreted as a preference for my father but rather an inheritance of his tendency for tardiness ;-) Finally, I’m happy to report that they are both doing well in their new living spaces. The original title has been amended in order to protect the address and privacy of the current owners of the house.