I didn't expect to be so upset when my dad told me it was time to put Josh down. I knew it would be coming. But for some reason when he said it was going to happen this week, I had to really try to hold it together the rest of the conversation. He's 14, which means we've had him since I was my sister's age exactly. I probably met him nearly 14 years ago this week. That also means that I am acutely cognizant of all memories of him, because at eight you pretty much keep those memories intact--they don't get muddled and distorted as much as the earlier ones.
He's such a sweet boy, with the kindest eyes. He's mellow, but he's always been kind of like an old man--a little bit fiery and not afraid to let you know. He was the one who woke Dad when the house next door caught fire when I was in the fifth grade, and he used to sleep next to Meghan's bassinet and check on her if she stirred. He's always looked a little funny, like a character from a Dr. Seuss book. He knows who he likes.
At the risk of sounding trite and overly elegiac, I'll leave it at that.
And Dad said they're planning to put in an offer on a fixer-upper ranchette on the outskirts of town. I'm so far from all of this. I'm probably more okay with the idea of them moving now that I'm really truly "out of the house" and have been for some time now. They threatened to move about six or eight years ago and I wanted nothing to do with it. Now I'm a little more detached and so it seems less threatening to my own perception of "home". Home is here, where I live now. "Home" is with my family, wherever they choose to be.
