Going home

My spirit is restless and I don't know why. I wish I could see what I need to do. And it is about action; even if I'm supposed to rest, I need to know that. Why is it so hard to rest? Perhaps I'm too used to turmoil. After all, I can name many instances of action and upset during the past, oh, fifteen months. My mother-in-law died and cut my husband out of her will. My mum died and we were devastated. My sister-in-law imploded spectacularly. Not only is she addicted to alcohol, she inherited the mental instability that runs through the women in my husband's family. I visit my sisters, whom I love, but they can be a challenge. They're wonderful women who don't get me. They call me racist, for example. They challenge even slight things. They dislike me being right. The visit had definite awkward moments. But I was happy to see them, even though I was happier to return home.

Going home. Maybe that's the purpose of it all. When Mum died, she was flown from the west coast, where she lived, to Boston. Mum lived there for decades and she had a burial plot right beside Dad. Where my father lay, that was where she would be. So, I got to go home, too. I saw friends and family and familiar sights. It was the place I grew up. I went to the funeral parlor we all used, right down the street from my church. I saw my old schools, and ate in Mum's favorite restaurant. I even looked for my grade school best friend's house.( We found it.) And I saw my best and oldest friend for the first time in thirteen years. It was good and familiar, but it wasn't home any longer.

My sister-in-law Trina was falling apart when we were back for the funeral. The day after the funeral, my husband Whiskey and I drove eight hours home. He rented a car trailer and at four the next morning, left to collect his sister, her car, and her life. He returned, exhausted. She was drunk, filthy, jobless, and living in a slum. She was having seizures, trying to steal somebody's dog, and tossing pay checks in the trash.
My husband attempted, unsuccessfully, to get her to go get checked out at a hospital. Trina wound up at her father's, the default setting when she lost another job or screwed up her life so badly that she couldn't manage.

Every time she returned there, she brought them pain. My husband's father and stepmother fed her, housed her, and drove her everywhere. In return, she bought and prepared food they couldn't eat, lay around all day watching television, and drank in private. After a few weeks of this, my mother-in-law told Trina she was drinking. When she denied it, my mother-in-law argued, citing the receipts from the liquor store and the empty vodka bottles in the trash. Trina bolted, and left the only place that might be home.

The rest of that day was nothing but upheaval. My husband Whiskey collected her from the police. He was taking her to the hospital when she tried to jump out of the vehicle. He called the state cops. They persuaded her to check into a hotel for the night. She became wilder and more delusional, tossing out threats and accusations. Trina had driven away everyone who cared, and was now on her own.

For a while she remained local, keeping her distance while she bullied, harassed, and threatened her family. Then she was hired in another state and hasn't been back. Without her here, we can be happy and comfortable in this place. We are feeling at home.

Robert Frost wrote:" Home is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in." Perhaps. But it's only home if you carry that home in your heart. Home consists of not only the good that's there, but the bad that isn't. My home isn't in Boston, but with my husband and children. You can't build a home on pain, or loss. You can't build a home on fear and anger. You can't make your home where hate and discord reside. A home is a haven, a safe place, a shelter and a sanctuary. To have such a home means letting the good in and keeping the bad out. May we all have such a home. And may Trina find a way to make a home.