Moving

Moving seems like a hassle. I'm pretty sure it is. The mother has kind of set her mind on moving. So here's the game plan:

1. Clear the whole entire house
2. Move into Mark's (older brother) new house
3. Fix up this house
4. Sell it
5. Buy a new house
6. Move into that house

Simple enough right? No.

The idea of having anew house that you can interior decorate yourself seems entirely appealing to me. But the truth is, I'm content with the house I'm in now. Yea it may be old and raggedy. Yea it may be falling apart. But there are memories built into this house. I've been living in this house my whole entire life. To just leave it and put it in the hands of others so that they may build their own memories in it seems...iffy.

Mom wants to sell the house. It's understandable. After "the Incident" it seems all we need is change in order to forget the past. She says she doesn't want to live in the house because it makes her nostalgic. But, couldn't nostalgia be a good thing? Nostalgia seems to have such a negative connotation. But to me, nostalgia means memories.

She says she hurts whenever she walks up the stairs and past his room. She says she hurts when she's alone in the house. It's true. And I feel it too. I hurt whenever I walk past his room. I feel like I want to go in there and give him a hug and tell him how much I love him, but I cant. It's...impossible. I hurt whenever I walk into the upstairs bathroom where I first heard his signs of a stroke. I hurt whenever I stare out into the backyard, remembering how he would sit outside, soak in the sun, and read a book. I hurt whenever I sit in the living room, remembering him sitting there with his bajillionth glass of wine and watching the Olympics in the wee hours of the morning. I hurt when I go into the kitchen, remembering how he'd ask me for a band aid because he had cut his finger making food. I hurt whenever I go into the downstairs bathroom, remember how in 4th grade, he would bring me into the bathroom and rub alcohol in my belly button when I had an infection there. I hurt when I sit on my bed in my room, remembering when we argued and I ran in there to cry. I hurt when I drive my car-it used to be his. I hurt when I pull into the driveway, remembering on some days how he'd be sitting on the porch and watering (more like flooding) the front lawn. I hurt everywhere I go. I hurt every time I think of him.

It hurts. And I can't do anything to stop the emotions that surge through my body. It's pathetic how weak I am. I wish I were stronger. I wish I didn't hurt.