Saturday, December 15, 2012


It's been a long but lovely pre-Christmas day. Vincent took my mother and me out to Junk & Disorderly, where she and I were pretty sure we would find presents for each other, and hopefully some others as well. We were half right. Minutes after arriving, I lost my heart to a fifties two-seater sofa, made from the most beautiful fabric, and priced so that I thought it couldn't be right. It was, and we pick it up tomorrow; my present from my parents that will accompany me to my new home, live in the room looking across the yard which I have decided will be where Jimmy's desk, my sewing machine, and all of my journals will go, and on which I will sit and drink tea, and probably, at first, do a bit of crying. (It's good to know what one is in for.)

Mum in turn found a silver gravy boat (she already has one, but neither she nor I lets that stop us), and a sixties hat which Vincent tactfully describes as avant garde. There were about sixty-eleven other things she could have left with, had she the funds and the space at home; we have the same gift for finding a million things we love at secondhand stores. Sometimes I wish she was a rich society woman who had a huge house she could fill with lamps and sideboards and uncomfortable chairs that Dad can't fit on, but, I could never change their house. It is the perfect size for everybody; it swells just big enough to fit everyone in, but is small enough that it doesn't feel lonely when it's just Mum and Dad, and that her things clutter it a bit. I love clutter; I am my Mama's granddaughter, and my mother's daughter. I like to see my things, and I like to have everything I love about me, and everything I own has sentimental value to me. Everything.

I spent most of the rest of the day outside on the deck, wilting in the greenhouse created by their new clear deck-blinds. I didn't think about not being there in a few months time, but I did think about how much I like being around everybody. I used to love Saturday mornings at home, when everyone was up and having breakfast and Dad had already been out and Mum was still in her pajamas and we would all come and go like a hive of bees. I've spoken to a friend before about the habit of sleeping on couches in rooms where people go in and out constantly. She also comes from a family that feels big, even if it isn't so big written down, and we laughed about how it's always preferable to be in a room where you will frequently wake to voices or crashes in the kitchen or the phone ringing and Dad yelling Get The Phone to a quiet secluded bedroom, where most people would choose to nap. When I first moved out into a house without any of my family, it took a lot of adjusting to get used to the quiet; no-one closing the bathroom door loudly, or coming in the gate every five minutes. I love the peace of our apartment, and I've grown to rely on time in it with only Vincent or myself, but I think I will always be a train station kind of person.

Next Christmas Vincent and I would love to have everybody come to our house. I've pictured it; with and without a baby, with us staying with his parents, someone else staying with his parents... But we both know it probably won't happen, and that's fine. Christmas is full of magic, and it would be special anywhere, but it wouldn't be Christmas without my family. I don't know how I'll define home come February, but Christmas is wherever my family is, and December 25, any year, that is where I'll be.

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