My Real Home.

 I have moved 13 times in my life at least, maybe more,in several different cities, places, and homes, but of all the places I’ve lived in,and all the houses I’ve lived in, for some reason our old house in Toronto is the one I consider to be my “real” home and everywhere else just temporary, even though I only lived there for 6 years, from age 12 until we moved to California in 1984. Perhaps it is because it was our first house(I had lived in apartments prior to then and hated it,although I was told we lived in a new  house when I was a baby but I don’t remember it) and where I got my first dog, and have happy memories? I’m not sure, but that is the house I most think of, miss, reminese, and have recurring dreams of moving back to.

It was a nice old brick house, built in the late 1800’s or early 1900. It was about 85 or so years old when we lived there. It was a small house, only 3 bedrooms,and had a very small yard(typical for Toronto though) and had nice wooden trim, fireplace, French doors, and old-fashioned floral wallpaper, but didn’t have the wiring for a washer and dryer so we walked up to the laundry mat once a week,and it was perfect for my mother and I. We rented it(who can afford to buy a house there?) and I really liked it. Years later we brought the kids by it to see(the street had drastically changed since I lived there) eager to show them the house I loved and partially grew up in, and I was saddened and heartbroken they scowled it “looks like a slum!” but it didn’t and even had a new roof, new windows and painted a different colour on the railings.The neighbourhood was run-down and not like it was when I lived there, which I found shocking and disillusioning, but the house was still nice(I heard a doctor had bought it after we’d moved) and I was tempted to knock on the door and ask the present owners if I could come in and look around at my old house but I didn’t have the nerve to do it, so I can only imagine,and remember it the way it was; the way I knew it, and hold on to my memories, but I do wonder what my recurring dreams we move back there might mean, though, if anything….it was really the only place I ever felt was my “home.”