My sister and I spent all of Friday moving furniture about in our old suburban house. Now that all the pretentious tidying – shoving forgotten miscellaneous into boxes and burying them in storage space – it looks like the model home. And we asked each other, “Why is it that once we’re no longer living here, it is the most beautiful ‘home’ in all the ‘home sense’ we are advised of in home magazines nowadays?”

Of course, we’re trying to sell it and con the next sucker into thinking that they would be able to live like that. Who has a large showcase bookshelf beside their dining table with nothing but mostly decor and other falsely proclaiming fashion books. What office space has only two books of the world map and nothing else. It’s not the 1700’s.

Once we were all finished with the moving, it suddenly hit me how sad it was that we had never really taken the time to admire this home. The light fixtures and the ceiling carvings; lying across the living room on the white couch that probably never got more than 1 week’s worth of visit from the entirety of our family in these last 5 years told me that we haven’t sat around long enough. Somehow in the short 5 years that seemed so opaque and fast but had been so painfully slow as well had chalked up this house to be a nuisance. This beautiful undeserving home, we had come to hate and avoid it.

Now my mom no longer feels safe here and my sister and I no longer want to suffice living on the other side of town from our work. That, and wasn’t the idea of this ‘transition’ home to make sure we become adults? Yet my mother goes and throws around proposals where she’ll use the money from the house and buy herself a condo and another for my sister and I to rent together. So that we’re all safe together I suppose. So that she may come by more often and drop off food and make sure we’re alright. So that we may be together again.

I shut her down while trying my best to be kind about it. Is it altruism that fuels her and these questions or is this another one of life’s test?

I’m so mad because if I weren’t so angry already it would show probably how desperately I would love to go back again. This sense of abandonment, the fear of it, makes me see omnipotent versions of my sister in all the fellow females bypassing me on the way home. We might think it funny while we laugh over text message but this is all happening the same – the Duck will be moving again and further away, once again. And my mother may follow my sister and I where we’re currently at, but who knows where we’ll be in 5 years time.

So strange this anxiety I feel. I think a  part of me has at last given up on some things that I could not hold on to. I hate to disappoint people but it seems so much more grounding to just admit to myself that I wasn’t who they thought I was. Not that big of a dreamer. And maybe to you that’s reading this last sentence may not be made much of from the entirety of this piece, but ..well, there’s really no proper reason to suffice. However more I write and obsessively edit this – as I would have few months back – it will never amount in my head to the raw ways so many other bloggers out here can paint an ambiance onto a internet page and transcribe the intensity of the emotion.

Who knows. Twice in my life my sister and this ‘family’ image we were supposed to have never happened. Somehow one of us were always away. And eventually all of us left as well.

“Well, I’m telling you, you’re not missing out on anything. I hated those 4 years in high school there and living in a big house by myself.” I complained to my sister.

“Then that’s how mom feels right now.”

I realize I’m pretty bitter.

It’s a strange plucking sensation to think the house will really be sold. I just want to lay on the sofa again with the golden incandescent light of the lamp and pretend that we could just stay for awhile. All of us this time. Lie in the same way we lay in bed in the morning and say, “5 more minutes.”