I am hanging some photos and getting some chores done and select "folk rock" for Pandora to churn out some tunes as my backdrop. I am in my relatively new house, over seven years into my life as a Chicagoan, but when I hear James Taylor, I am no longer. I am in an Indianapolis kitchen, the sun cascading through an open sliding door in summer. Meats and summer squash sizzle on the grill just past the screen and I'm home. I am home.
James Taylor was often the soundtrack to my former life. He would sing us full, along with Gordon Lightfoot and Tom Petty, as we passed the mushroom rice and the beer supply dwindled. I realize now that when I think of "home" I am usually thinking of my former in-laws home. As I've detailed previously on this blog, I grew up with my ex-husband. By the time we were married, his sisters were my sisters, we had holiday traditions and inside jokes, and I'd passed many lazy summer days in just this fashion. They were never "my in-laws" or "his family" but simply "my family." And I miss them still, though my divorce papers were filed years ago and I have a new set of in-laws, even.
In the winter, they heated their home with a wood burning stove, and I'd return to my mother's house smelling of that dry air, my hair full of static and smoke. Their kitchen table was tiny, but we were prone to sitting in laps and sharing chairs anyway. I think it would be difficult for P to imagine me doing any of that. And I'm sure he wishes he would see me do it with his family. Someday, I may. It's not as if I don't want that. But before I can, I have to stop desperately wanting to gather around that particular dining table with those particular people. I have to grieve that loss. Replacement isn't the way to achieve contentment.
It was my fault. I filed for divorce. It was my fault. I could have kept them, could be sitting there still. I could have been moderately happy. But I wouldn't have P. And as soon as I realize that, I know that I made the right choice.
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