You can't go home again

Well *I* can’t anyway. It’s being sold.

My brother is moving out of the house my family has owned since before I was in eighth grade. He was the last tie my family had to that place. Now it’s going to get a makeover and be sold to the highest bidder.

I’m glad my parents will be losing one more real estate headache and getting some extra retirement cash. Good for them. But I’ll miss the place.

I’ll especially miss my cool room.

I wrote my first computer programs in that room. I did tons of homework in that room. Played a hell of a lot of records in that room. My first youthful romances played out in that room. Had dozens of makeout sessions and a handful of breakups in that room. I rehearsed my choral vocal pieces there. Rehearsed conversations there. Replayed conversations there, figuring out what I really *should* have said. In my room I was much cooler and more eloquent than I was in the outside world.

I cooked up a lot of dreams and schemes staring at that ceiling, all of which were intended for the world outside of that room. I’ve been in the world outside of that room for a long time now. I grew out of that room and, with it, most of those dreams and schemes.

I wish I could go to my room before they remodel the place and cut a largish square of wallboard out of that ceiling. I want that patch right above the spot where my bed was where I used to lay daydreaming and staring. I’d like to have just that one chunk. I could have it to remind me of the wonderful folly of my dreams. Dreams may change, but they must be dreamt anyway.

So, goodbye Old House We’ve Outgrown. It seems an honorable thing to fix you up and pass you on to some other family. Maybe some other kid will stare up at that patch of ceiling and cook up something really good in his dreams.

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