1944

Home did not mean four walls and a door you never walk out of; home was a feeling of where you belong. ~Pushing Daisies

The other day, Rita sent me a link to the Craigslist ad for our old house, back up for rent. It made me want to snatch that beautiful place up again.

We let go of places much more easily than we do of people, don't we? But 1944, in fact, gave me the three people I loved more in Memphis than anyone else. 1944 gave me a sense of home that college residence halls and 6-month Philadelphia leases just didn't fulfill. Just as "Memphis is as much a character in my story as any single person," that house was like another comforting friend. At the end of a long day, where I'd nap in my car in the driveway (because I'm weird like that), or trudge up the steps to collapse on our porch swing, that house felt like the beacon guiding this tired teacher-sailor to shore.

I think back to the parties we had there, from our way belated housewarming to our Chinese New Year gatherings to that very last BYOE (Bring Your Own Everything, as we'd dispatched with almost all the furniture and food) farewell get-together, and I can almost still feel the warmth of friendship envelop me.

I can never quite explain in words why I love Memphis so much, why I miss it, why I try to return when so many just want to leave. Sometimes I wonder, is it the people? And will Memphis feel like home even after my friends no longer live there? Maybe Memphis will always feel like home, because of those memories made in that old home.

Once, on a return visit, I made Rita drive us past 1944. It looked the same, not like the Dollhouse down the street whose Pepto-pink facade had been completely painted over. But I knew that four new people lived there - four people I knew, actually - and I knew that the dream of 1944 had never been for us to keep. But when I saw that Craigslist ad last week, like the same ad I'd seen four years ago that first reeled us in, I indulged in the possibility, just for a second, that we could have the dream again.

In the time that has passed, I have not felt the same way about any place. I have not lived in any place for as long, and while my next roommates have been lovely people, one of whom I shared many Memphis experiences with, I have affirmed that the four of us in 1944 was a fortuitous, once-in-a-lifetime combination of friendship and love. I know it's pointless to try to replicate it. My task now is to try and make it last.