The Retirement Home
“You’ve got granny curtains,” my sister tugs at the fabric hanging in front of my new window a bit. They are white, and semi see-through, and they look exactly like the ones our nan used to have, except hers had crazy ornaments and little angel statues in front of them.
“All you need now is a geranium.” We laugh, and she tells me she is happy for me even though she doesn’t understand the choices I make. This, to me, is what sisterly love looks like. We had worked hard to get here.
I shine a light at her husband who is standing on a chair we had pinched from the restaurant downstairs. “A little to the left Becks, you’re shining in my face. I move the smartphone in the opposite direction. My brother in law tinkers a little more and then comes down for the chair. I hug him. “Thank you so much for installing that light, I cleaned the place yesterday and couldn’t see a thing.” “No kidding,” my sister smiled as she rubbed her finger across the dusty windowsill.
It’s my first night of sleeping in a retirement home. I am thirty-four years old, and my life is in shambles again. Or so I thought. Truth is that life did not go the way I wanted it to go. Instead, it went where it needed to go, where I needed to go. Home again, after five years of living abroad. Back home again to heal. And man did I need to heal.
The past five years of my life I have struggled with anxiety, depression, being in love with someone who couldn't love me back, being foreign in a sizzling metropole, being alone.
I will use this journal to make sense of some of these things to help myself move forward. It contains fragments of a new book I am working on, and all constructive criticism is welcome.