Tuesday, May 25, 2010
My mother wished she lived someplace else all the time. She shifted furniture, bought home and garden magazines, and drew beautiful pictures of landscape and property on graph paper with colored pencils as I fell asleep beside her dreaming of where we would eventually end up.
The thing is... we ended up where we were.
And I couldn't be happier. I love it here. My home. The ocean on one side, the river on the other. The working class neighborhood. The arguing neighbors. I love the messy, crumbling chaos of a city that lives forever on the brink of greatness.
The snotty New Englandness enfolded into immigrant arms.
I'd never move.
And still... there is a romance about being full of hopes and dreams and wishes of elsewhere. My mother, for all her seamlessly hopeless searching did an amazing thing. One of those byproducts that you never expect. She moved me. As I was always happy where I was (usually right next to her) and never felt the losses she felt... I was able to go on her adventures without the crushing blow of reality when they eventually came to an end.
I learned how to dream without needing the dream to come true. I learned the art of the story.