The house of parents
It all started when they sold my old piano. They, meaning my parents. After years o neglect, they had finally decided to redecorate the living room to their taste, a very commendable plan, and the old piano wouldn't fit anymore. I agreed. I felt deep in the heart for my old instrument, but the truth is that it wouldn't fit my home either. And none of my children seem to be particularly endowed with musical talents. The piano was gone. Walls came down. The wooden boards on the floor were replaced by a synthetic material looking like wood, supposed to be resistent to the ravages of Third World Three. An interior designer was called in to rearrange the furniture. She didn't appreciate the old mahogonny dinner table set, an heirloom that came straight from the 50s. Before I could claim it for my own, it was gone too, and its place a black lacquered table in what my mother described as an Eastern, minimalist look, complete with minimalist chairs.
Next was the kitchen that I saw being remodelled in my childhood. More walls came down. Tiles were exchanged by a plastic looking material. The old cupboards disappeared and new coordinated ones came in, with the exact right amount of room to fit the microwave oven, the freezer and the fridge. Then it was the turn to tackle my parents' room (new shelves and mirrors, new paintings), my dad's office (a glass door so my mom can take a peek at him once in a while), my old room. And now only the family room is still untouched.
All of this happened in less than one year. Rather six months, I would say. And all of sudden, I visit my parents home and I don't recognize the place I grew up. I have problems finding things at the wisely planned kitchen. I feel lost in the hugeness of the living room without the walls that created different nooks and corners. I think it is hard to navigate among the newly disposed furniture and the new color patterns. I want to say that I am not complaining. Things do change all the time. I wouldn't want my parents home to be preserved as a museum, a monument to my childhood. But I must confess that I resent the speed of the changes. It happened too fast for my eyes to get used to it. I blinked -- and voilà -- gone were the settings of my past as a child and as a young woman. I blinked and it was turned into a memory that for me is more palpable than the plastic floor boards, the elegant furniture, the coffee table that tells no story to me. I want to be practical, still I miss the table where my grandfather commanded the meals. I want to be fair, but I miss the flower pots, some with things I planted and tended for a long time. I would never complain about that to my parents. They are happy and it is their home. For a while, they had fun as two kids rearranging a doll house. But lately, whenever I visit them I feel a tinge of melancholy for what is not there to be seen, but is kept untouched in the incredible disorganization of my heart.
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