Home to Stay

When we moved to the 1920s stone house in Raleigh, a house so charming that passers-by would literally stop and stare, I never expected to move again. Why? It was the perfect house, the one we had admired from our apartment across the street and never dared to dream that we would be so lucky as to live in. I confidently expected to grow old and die there, although both events seemed reassuringly remote. I could not imagine a chain of events that would lead to voluntarily abandoning that house. But clearly I lacked imagination.

Nine and a half years gone, we are moving again, and again I entertain the notion, though far less complacently, that this might be the last home. Why does moving always bring thoughts of that final move? I guess in the right frame of mind everything can remind you of death. The day before Halloween in Cobble Hill, when the brownstones are draped with fake cobwebs and rubbery bats and glowing skeletons, seems to put one in that frame of mind.

We are buying an apartment, something that until very recently seemed as impossible as buying our house did lo those many years ago. I should be happy; look at me. I feel many things -- fear, for example -- but happiness is not one of them. A sneaking sense of the return of domestic sensations I had nearly forgotten, like an uncontrollable urge to collect paint samples and shop for switchplates on Homeclick, might be the closest thing to a postive emotion I can muster, but I am not sure how far to trust the domestic impulse. It can lead you down a garden path, literally. (Note to self: need future posting on the delights of being free of the tyranny of mulch. How much money and time I wasted carting bags of mulch home from Home Depot, simply because it had to be done?)

Happiness is hubris, tempting the gods and fate. Sticking your finger in the socket. Do I really believe this? I think I do.