When I was little and heard the song "I'll Be Home for Christmas" I always thought it was an awful thing that someone might not be home for Christmas.
My parents just sold my childhood home in N.C. and all the hope I was building up inside of myself slowly drained out when I realized there would never be another breezy Easter lunch with the screen door open, another warm and cozy Thanksgiving dinner or a Christmas morning Danish breakfast baking in the oven. Somebody else will put their Christmas tree in our living room and presents from strangers will be put under it. (I can only hope they put the tree in the right place - right in front of the wall of four windows so everyone on the road can see it.)
Now, as an adult, I realize that no, not everyone can go home for Christmas. It's a sad, sad thing, much more emotional than I can put into words. I won't be home for Christmas, but not because I'm temporarily unavailable. I've been home for Christmas for the last time and that's the end of it.
My house holds so many memories and has been such an intimate part of my family's growth over the years that it's much too sad to see it go. It's a safe haven for all of us. When we've lived all over the country - all over the world - it's been that one place of reunion and shelter that has come to mind when we think of comfort and togetherness. To freely give up that shelter and let someone else live in the place where our memories are is a little painful for me.
Maybe someday I'll go back to Waxhaw and drive past that house and look to see if that wooden face on the tree is still there. See if the driveway is a curvy as I remember, and see if my bamboo windchime is still hanging outside of my window.
I'll be home for Christmas, if only in my dreams.
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