What makes a home a home rather than a house?
I guess it’s a bit different for everybody. For me it’s the feeling that my feet sink right into the earth that the house sits on, the feeling that I’m not going to want to move for a long time.
I haven’t felt that very often, and I definitely felt it here.
But as a renter that feeling however deep, is not secure in any way, no matter how sincere, it is fleeting and out of your hands.
In the two years and three months that Mr. Wolff and I have been together we have lived in four homes. All of them have had their impermanence in common, the first and second went on the market in the first month we lived in them. The third was being demolished after our lease expired, we were informed of this after we signed the lease based on the understanding that the lease would be able to be renewed after the first expired (no mention that this was never going to be possible). And now, this house which I have begun to nest in, that I had hoped would be our last stop until Mr Wolff finishes law school, less than half way through our lease (which we again sought an assurance that would be renewable) is on the market.
My sadness might seem silly to some people being that obviously it’s not my house, even if until Thursday I felt it was my home. My rational self agrees, my emotional self is railing against the unfairness and lies that we have been fed again. My practical self has spent the weekend washing walls and deep cleaning a house that needs a real paint job and most of it’s flooring and all of it’s window coverings replaced, the more time I spend, the deeper I feel that this is no longer my home but a place I am trapped until it no longer suits the owner.
When I have finished dressing this shell up for sale and ready for strangers to trudge through I might take some photos, and see whether I can make it appear magazine worthy, a fitting superficial tribute to the place that was briefly home.