All the comforts of...

There is something about the house that makes me feel “at home”. Perhaps its because its full of furniture from our families home in hollywood. The old Hollywood house has always seemed to be the home that got away. When I was 5 my mum and dad split up. I can remember the day it happened because it was the first time I saw my mom cry. It wasn’t the last. She cried about 10 years later when she asked the oh so delicate question “are you a fag?” She chose her words. She chose to use those. Go figure. This house has the table I crawled up on to try and tell my mom it was OK. I had no idea why she was crying. I didn’t know what to do All I could do was say it’ll be alright. That table was the centerpiece to the one family thanksgiving where grandparents came to be with us. A faded time. A happier time I presume. The memories have no contrast. Its all a milky blurry memory.
The table is no longer the centerpiece of the dining room. The dining room with the black and white checkerboard floor. Its found a new use, in the new home as the work table in the office. It served its purpose then and now. This is the table of which great works of art are created. Wonderful photo/paint on canvas works. Its much smaller then I remember. I know that it had leaves in it that extended the table. Those inserts have been lost over time. Oh ...

The couch downstairs is the couch I used to hide under as a kid. When I moved my cat over to the house he went under there and would not come out. I crawled under there to comfort him and realized I didn’t want to come out either. All the feelings of “home” came flooding back. I don’t think I have felt that safe since I was five. I could sleep under that couch. I don’t fit that well under there now. Sorry to babble folks but I am at work and trying to post without my cubemate reading over my shoulder.