memories don’t have doors.. do they?

pic at sunset on a pontoon boat

Memories don’t have doors, do they?

I catch a glimpse of my cabin sitting in a farmer’s field halfway to my destination. Tears cloud my vision and my guts do a little flip flop, my mind says “stop already and get a grip!” My heart isn’t buying it so I give my head a shake and say out loud “I am starting a new chapter in my life.. and this too, shall pass.”

This trip to my lake is to confront my feelings of loss and hopefully get excited for my son’s new cabin being built on the site of where mine used to be. “We are going to make lots of new memories, mom,” says my daughter, when I tried to explain my grief. I hope they are right, but of course, they are right.. aren’t they?

I swallow the catch in my throat as I drive onto the now-vacant lot. This unbelievably beautiful piece of lakefront property I called home for over 35 years. Living full-time here the past five years in the summer and spending my winters down south. So many stories and so many memories and now what?

This aging thing and moving on should be all good.. right? Then why do I feel so crappy about it all? I’m heartbroken that I need to sell off all my cabin stuff or put it all in an auction, getting nothing for it. I also hate that my kids don’t want anything, really? It is the same for my china and collectibles.. it all makes me feel so sad.

Feeling depressed or sad is not how I want to spend any of my time left here, however long or short it may be. Would it kill my kids to at least acknowledge my attachment to my things? Some have hidden stories that come to life when I look at them. Warm memories, the watercolour I did of the trees beside my cabin, snow clinging precariously to the branches. The excitement I felt when I found such a great deal on that black leather couch, with a small rip in a back corner… I spent many hours falling asleep in its comfortable arms.

My mom’s hide-a-bed in the sun porch, I would curl up in the corner of it reading a book while the sun warmed me and it reminded me of her love of books  My precious deck out front where most of my days started with my morning coffee and contemplating life. This was my refuge from the world, most of my writing originated from there. It’s all the little things, and so ok.. the big ones too, I’m not ready to part with them yet dammit. Can’t you just store them for me and when I die you can put them in the auction?

Being in control of my life gives me purpose but now I feel like I am lost. Searching for answers to questions I haven’t even formed yet. This was always my soft place to land, but now it just feels cold and empty. Why is it we attach ourselves to stuff anyway.. its just stuff and I don’t need it anymore because my cabin is sitting in a farmer’s field…

I’m staying in my sons’ old cabin, I unpack a few things and decide to go to bed,  (he is building a new one where mine used to be) and this feels like my son’s cabin.. not mine. It’s cold and pouring rain when I get up extra early. Hopefully, I can do some writing out on the deck, find some peace. It’s also fathers day… the kids will be coming up later as will their dad and his girlfriend. The rain and the cold don’t let up so I call it quits, time for me to pack up and leave.

Mothers day was also spent up here cleaning out my cabin that’s gone and now.. and now,  here I am staring over at where my cabin used to be and I feel nothing, maybe that’s progress. I’m glad it is raining because it’s raining in my heart as well, time to leave. I don’t belong here anymore, I have a pool and a hot tub at my condo, and a Tim Hortons on the corner.

I can’t even relate to Fathers day anyway.. my dad is long dead. My mom left him when I was twelve and the oldest of six siblings. My ex was a decent dad but he was the opposite of a loving husband. Actually, the males that have been a part of my life, have all left me wanting. The exception being my son and a favorite uncle.

My quest for the right man has probably been in vain because of this. Maybe Tom Selleck (my fantasy man) isn’t the right one either, although my designs on him are not for a life partner.

This weekend has been a journey to sort stuff out, and here I am back at square one. Time to start making a new life I guess. I like writing and you’re never too old to write another chapter and start a new adventure “the good, the bad, and the stuff best left untold/or not?”

Ah well.. and this too shall pass.



3 thoughts on “memories don’t have doors.. do they?

  1. So well written! I too had to move from my home of 39 years. I had 3 yard sales as going from 6,800 square feet to 1,700 ( I think mostly balcony) was painful.
    You were right no one wanted even beautiful things that held my stories.:(
    I watched the Japanese lady Marie Kondo many times to learn how to let go.
    Change is so hard and in the end it is family and friends that matter. I’m grateful to call you my friend.

    1. Thank you so much my friend : ) that means a lot to me when some take the time to write a comment.. it isn’t easy to leave a comment on this site : (

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