I'm living in my parents house.
Well, it's mine now.
It doesn't feel like mine.
I'm not sure it's where I belong.
But it's where I am right now.
Every room is a juxtaposition of our different worlds.
My life. Their lives.
The two of them, together.
Me, odd and awkwardly artistic.
My mom, country-cute with lace curtains framing every window
my step-dad with his frenzy of wires and antennas and satellite dishes;
indulgences in both his genius and his hobby.
The fireplace he painstakingly built
stone by stone by neatly placed and perfectly aligned stone
on which I now stack my art work
and hippie flowers in an old thermos bottle
next to a chunk of wood I just happen to like
and a spray bottle to give the canary
The curtains are so not me.
They really aren't.
But I left them up because honestly
after nursing and burying two parents last winter
in addition to all the other stuff of life
that's rolled across and flattened me like a big effing truck this year
I just can't seem to get my foot up on that first rung
of the ladder
to take them down.
So I come home at night to this mish-mash of them and me
and I let my dog lick my dinner plate
and I stare at the piles of boxes that need to go to Goodwill
and the rooms that need to be emptied
and the walls that need to be painted
and the floors that need to be pulled up
the cupboards that need to be emptied
and the basement that I haven't stepped in for two months
because it's just full of more work to do
and I put on my fuzzy socks
I wrap up in my fleece blanket
let the cat crawl up on my lap
and decide it'll all get done.
But not now.