I find myself in a familiar place but it's not my own, not of my owning making. The things here are nice but I would not have picked them. The Italian leather couches, nice but uncomfortable and not at all cozy. The gigantic t.v., well, I can't say I don't enjoy it but sometimes I resent it's presence. The glass coffee tables, too modern for my taste and constantly filled with fingerprints.
We live, my husband, my children and I among my parents things and while they are all nice things, nicer even than what we had, they are not our things. These things don't have our history imprinted on them. Gone is my coffee table with the scratches my when my son was learning to write. I can't see the teeth marks my girl left on it when she used it as a teething ring. Gone is the dining room furniture. I spent hours sanding the table and chairs. My mom and I picked out the fabric to recover the chairs and with my dad's help we reupholstered them. Even after the sanding and refinishing, a slight water mark from a meal long ago digested, remained as a reminder of all the lovely moments spent with family and friends sitting at that table.
I miss my things. I try to tell myself that at some point we would have opted to buy a new coffee table, a new dining room set. I tell myself my kids are out growing things. Eventually all the things might have been replaced but the feeling that I'm among things that are not mine lingers..
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