This is me the day my parents moved out of our family home of 30 years.
My mother had the ashes of both her parents in two little boxes. Grandpa had his hat on. Grandma had to be dug up having been at least partially assimilated by a flowering shrub in a corner of the garden many years before.
The moving reminded me of a birth - a long laborious build up followed by lots of emotional turmoil, grunting and sweating, allot of physical pain then release.
My parents did it all. They completely emptied this beautiful old house that has been a second home to SO so many of my friends...that has facilitated some of the best parties ever, that has expanded to shelter innumerous foreign students, overseas relatives, wayward youth, visiting artists, traveling friends over the years.
These beds have seen allot of action.
When the glow of the sunset had dissipated, when you could no longer see the ridges on the islands and the lights went on in the seminary tower there was this light. With a stiff and loud click of a switch it has illuminated love and madness, the best conversations, escape and capture.
We have all been captured and escaped only to be captured again. Our family home is gone. Release or capture?
This is the beginning of something else.
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