Although I knew I wanted to have the ceremony here in the epicenter of the political world I've grown to love, the choice had already been made for me. Weeks before the proposal, my father told me he was selling his house -- our house, where he had married my mother, where I had been born, where we had loved and lost and overcome all life had to throw at us, and where I had always imagined the roots of our family would stay firmly grounded.
Throughout my life, I've considered my parents' house a center of gravity. No matter where I spun out -- be it off to school in Boston, summer adventures somewhere far and away, or forging my career path in a new city -- I'd always find myself drawn back home.
Early on, my parents instilled in me the notion that our house was a place of gathering, of comfort, and of love. It was constantly filled with people, both friends and family, who would come for my dad's corny puns and my mom's gentle sarcasm and stay for the good food, the stories, and the sense of warmth and inclusion that emanated from our happy home. When my mother passed away in 2002, we tried our best to keep things the same and leave our door open to everyone at any time the way she would've wanted it to be. For the past eight years, we maintained the house and its gardens as a monument to all that she was and all who she loved, and it is difficult to this day to find a single object there that did not feel the touch of her hand.
But to my father, that same house is no longer just a monument. Instead, he says, it has become a tomb. Standing quiet and empty while he is in Florida running his business most of the year, it stores mementos of the wife he lost and the daughter that grew up and moved away. His side of the family left town long ago, heading northwest to Chicago; south to Virginia and North Carolina; east across the Atlantic to the United Kingdom. Some of my mother's side is still in the area, but many of them have also scattered to the wind across land and sea.
Early on, my parents instilled in me the notion that our house was a place of gathering, of comfort, and of love. It was constantly filled with people, both friends and family, who would come for my dad's corny puns and my mom's gentle sarcasm and stay for the good food, the stories, and the sense of warmth and inclusion that emanated from our happy home. When my mother passed away in 2002, we tried our best to keep things the same and leave our door open to everyone at any time the way she would've wanted it to be. For the past eight years, we maintained the house and its gardens as a monument to all that she was and all who she loved, and it is difficult to this day to find a single object there that did not feel the touch of her hand.
But to my father, that same house is no longer just a monument. Instead, he says, it has become a tomb. Standing quiet and empty while he is in Florida running his business most of the year, it stores mementos of the wife he lost and the daughter that grew up and moved away. His side of the family left town long ago, heading northwest to Chicago; south to Virginia and North Carolina; east across the Atlantic to the United Kingdom. Some of my mother's side is still in the area, but many of them have also scattered to the wind across land and sea.
It's coming sooner than expected, but the reality of it is that I'm going to have to create my own home; my own safe place; my own new center of gravity. And I hope it will be just as warm and as comforting as what my parents built... and more.
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