My parents left Brooklyn for greener pastures in the late 1950s, buying a home on Long Island, New York. Despite their worries that the house was too isolated, and far from the big city, they lived there for nearly 50 years.
About a decade ago, my father left home for a chemotherapy appointment and never returned. He’d battled lung cancer for several months already, and passed away after a week’s stay in the hospital.
From that day on, my mother found her big house too lonely, too filled with memories. She packed a suitcase for a short stay with me and Eleni in Brooklyn, but her worsening health soon made it clear that she wouldn’t be able to live in her house again — even if she wanted to.
For more than a year now, Eleni and I have made frequent trips out to Long Island, to look after the house and tend to my parents’ affairs. I open the front door and take a quick glance around, and it often feels as if they still live there. My father’s sneakers and tennis rackets rest in a corner, waiting for their turn on the court. Novels, Kleenex, and religious icons cover my mother’s nightstand.
I find the place — so frozen in time — to be a comfort. For months after my father died, I would sit on the couch and feel his presence, locking the doors at night, clicking off lights, and shuffling into his bedroom. I could hear my mother in her cramped kitchen, turning out meals and calling us all to the table.
On these visits to Long Island, I return, ever briefly, to my childhood. As I watch my daughter climb a tree, ride her bike, and pick enormous bouquets of dandelions, I think to myself: Could Eleni and I abandon our city life and live here? Could we make my old home our home? After years of car alarms, it would be nice to wake up to birds. After years of renting, it would be a luxury to own a house. I mull these thoughts in my mind until I’m struck with bigger questions. How would I — a single mother — and Eleni — a child born in China — blend in here? Would we fit in as seamlessly as we do in our diverse, urban neighborhood? Or would we be fish out of water in a largely white, conservative town?
For months I debated these questions and, just recently, decided to sell the house. Soon I’ll clear out decades’ worth of possessions and slowly dismantle the life that my parents built over time. The idea of it pains me, but I know it is necessary.
When I look around my parents’ house now, I breathe in memories of a not-too-distant past, of a lifestyle once embraced but since abandoned. And when I finally bring myself to exhale, I find I can let go of those remembrances.
Eleni and I — in our slightly offbeat, compatibly mismatched way — now stand on the threshold of our future. Will it unfold here in Brooklyn, where we currently reside, or somewhere else entirely? It’s hard to say. But I do know that it’s time for us to put down roots and build a home of our own.
