Bethany and I love driving through Riverside and admiring the beautiful historic homes.  We will often point out specific homes that catch our eye.  

We were on the street I’ve intentionally driven down hundreds of times before. It’s right on the way to a strip of restaurants that we enjoy eating at. I always slow down at this one specific block and take in the scenery.

When Bethany said, “Ooh, that one is pretty!” I knew which one she was referring to.  There was nothing striking about it, but it had been tastefully renovated a few years ago.   It blended in well in the historic setting, but the fresh paint, color choices, and meticulous landscaping were a step above the other homes.

“Yep, that’s the house where my dad took his life.” Cue the awkward silence…

I only have a couple memories of the house as a kid.  I remember the back entrance, and my eagle eye spying the “Pound Puppy” stuffed animal on a high shelf that Dad had tucked away before my birthday.  I was elated that he relented and gave it to me early.  I remember the front porch.  I remember the fucking garage.

The house is definitely prettier and nicer now. There’s no way it would look like that if he still occupied it. The work that has been done since then was no doubt expensive, as historic renovations always are. You can’t just do superficial work. Throwing down some vinyl plank and throwing up some paint only covers up serious problems that need remediation. Peeling back layers of damaged wood reveals more layers of damaged wood. A sagging floor isn’t just a sagging floor; it’s a structural problem that needs fixing from the inside out. A rotten piece of siding covers up a mold problem, which is caused by an intrusion of moisture. The outlets may work, but a closer look shows that the wiring is frayed and the electrical panel is an immediate fire hazard. A stopped up bathtub can’t be fixed by a plunger. The clay sewage pipes in the yard have been overtaken by roots that have clogged it up. You have to rip it all out and replace it with PVC. And even after all that time, energy, and money- it’s still the house where my dad died.

Nostalgia doesn’t quite summarize what I feel. Seeing the house, or truthfully seeing any of the homes from my childhood creates an unpleasant longing for something I feel like I lost, but truthfully maybe never had.

I wonder what it must feel like to be able to look back fondly at what used to be. I do have many memories of many good times. I had a good childhood. But I still have a deep longing for what could and should have been.

When I see the house, I breathe in deeply and feel. I feel sad knowing the tears he must have shed. I feel the loneliness he may have felt when it was time for us to leave to go back with mom. I feel the panic of knowing he didn’t have enough money to pay the rent. I feel the anger when the landlord reneged on her deal. I feel the rage, shame, fear, and emptiness of those final moments.

Much has changed since then. The house is more beautiful than ever. Those who walk by see what it is today. They don’t know the history. They don’t see my pain. They see what it has become. They see what I am today.