I spoke with my youngest sister yesterday and she relayed to me the dream she had had the night before. It was about the house that we lived in in Massachusetts, a weathered clapboard Colonial built in 1668. Except in her dream it was on a hill, with a few extras from other houses that our family lived in over the years. A conglomeration, if you will.
When we moved away from that house, my sister was almost five and I was going into my senior year in high school. None of us wanted to leave, but my dad's health was not good and we needed to move to a place that did not require as much care. My brothers and I vowed that one day, one of us would move back, buy the house and raise our children there. None of us did.
My memories of that house are much more vivid than my sister's. I can close my eyes and picture each room, walls decorated in period reproduction Strahan wallpaper, the color of the trim mouldings, the coffee-with-milk colored kitchen and the three doors that led to the tiny half-bath, pantry and back hallway.
My sister's memories are vague, seen from her five-year-old eyes. In her dream, she walked from room to room, touching the things that she remembered from her childhood. Coming to a cabinet, she opened it to find her toys, the favorite toys that she played with and loved. She took them all and left.
My sister asked what I thought her dream meant. After going through a divorce, moving to an apartment and living on her own for the first time in ten years, her life has been in upheaval for the past two years.
She has met someone, a man who loves her for who she is, who cares about what she thinks and understands that her creativity drives her. And so, two weeks ago she moved to North Carolina to be with him..
I told her what I thought her dream meant. I think she is home.