I close it tight so it stays sealed
I dream of home and then I start
To pick apart the bits I’d steal
And when it goes
Ain’t it strange
To pick the bones
And beg the rain?
And out tonight into the dark
To search in vain for this made real
If out one moment goes a spark
What’s up ahead must fingers feel
And when it goes
Is it strange
To love the cold
And fear the flame?
And goodness knows
That it ain’t strange
That when it goes
We’re not the same
My parents are in the final days of selling my childhood home. It’s happened to a lot of people, now it’s happening to me. It isn’t a devastating loss. My life isn’t going to change all that much as a result. How many times a year do I even go there? What it illuminates is more about what’s changed already, which is pretty much everything. Certain aspects of this hit me really hard, but mostly it’s this numb acceptance, which is weird. If I ever go in there again, it’ll be something else, somebody else’s. If I ever go in there again it won’t be home. I suppose one pervasive aspect of this is a feeling of coming unmoored. There’s been a long tether between the Boston suburbs and me for as long as I’ve lived. I’m not sure it will be there anymore. Will I just drift off in the current? What does it mean to be from somewhere when you’ve got no place there to go back to? Maybe a lot. Maybe nothing. Sometimes I think this is really going to hurt. Other times I suspect I’m already over it. That house did its job for us. It did it really well. I love it like a family member. I love it like a parent. Maybe it’s good that it can do that for somebody else now. This song is about all of that stuff.
Next week is Mount Everest’s fourth anniversary! Wow. Please come back to celebrate with me.