This is the first time I have spend alone time with my parents in their home. This is not the place I grew up in or have any memories of. They bought this apartment after my father retired and they spent years making it into their home. Last time I met them was a couple of years before the pandemic hit and a long time before that. What struck me hard was now much love and care they had put into the place. The feed and care of the home has become their way to nurture something. This was the same energy that drove them in their more active years to work, raise me, support family and so on.
They have a defined routine for things and there is place for all stuff that is useful and used. I used to be casual about inheriting this house and what it means for me. I realized today that I would find it hard to sell it and just as hard to maintain in. I will be between a rock and a hard place. The window sills have plants that are growing exuberantly. They each have their history - gifts from friends and neighbors for the most part. Some of the gift givers have since died imbuing their plant with greater significance. It would be incredibly hard to separate the objects from the stories.
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