I drove into the Sleepy Hollow feeling, for the first time, like I was just a visitor, enjoying the serene greenness of the little valley neighborhood with the clarity of one who must shortly and inevitably leave.
I passed the even rows of elm-enshrouded homes, circled up and around the island of land on a far too narrow two-way street so I could park, half on the sidewalk, in front of my parentsâ home. Cars already crammed the short driveway--I was late to the party.
Every time I come home--visit my parentsâ home--thereâs a fresh change, remodel, redecoration, to remind me that theyâre moving on, just like me. This time is no different. Clumps of uprooted grass pile up by the freshly cleared ground beneath the front porch; my momâs current landscaping mission is to artfully replace grass with drought-resistant shrubbery to cut down on water usage. I walk up the red brick steps and try the door, uncharacteristically unlocked. Lively chatter faintly echoes to the living room from the back patio, where the fam is no doubt seated around a tray of appetizers, wine glasses in hand.Â
Weighed down as I am with bags and sticky from hours of dance rehearsal and the strangely hot, humid, drizzle outside I make may way to my old bedroom quietly, feeling like a spy sneaking through the house unawares. Passing Jordanâs old bedroom I notice that the deed has finally been done: his bed is gone, the desk either new or confusingly three shades lighter. The transition from boyhood shrine to grown-up study is official, finally! I smile to myself, wondering what heâll say when he finds out.
Then my bedroom--nothing new since the queen bed was displaced here from the master bedroom wing. It looks ridiculously out of place in the sparse blue-and-white room peppered with certificates of recognition, dance photos, graduation pictures, and science fair awards. The three-and-a-half foot high bed towers over all the diminutive furniture as if to underscore the fact that the room is for sleep overs only, no actually living goes on here.
No oneâs seen me enter yet and now Iâm wondering how to make my entrance without looking like I snuck into the house on purpose. I put the moment off a little longer with a quick trip to the neat little bathroom. Biscuit seems to know that this is a secret moment, she slowly pads towards me from the kitchen with the smallest of tail wags for a reunion pet before click clacking over the kitchen floor to the backyard. A new kitchen floor! This, of all the changes, is the most stunning. Light tan laminate with marble-esque swirls where the white and green checkered pattern had been my whole life!Â
Now I can make my grand entrance. I step out into the kitchen exclaiming in an accent strangely similar to Adieâs newly minted âtrying not to be annoyedâ drawl:
âWhat the HECK is going on in here?!?â
As the sun sinks behind the trees in the west, coloring the backyard golden, orange, and pink, we seven huddle around a low table in an assortment of cushioned chairs and loveseats underneath a blue tarp keeping the rain off our heads. Mom, Dad, Poppa Mel, Adie, Mike, Nancy, Biscuit, and me. The usual delicious family gathering meal made by healthy, organic recipes that my mom will in detail to everyone whether theyâre interested or not. Salad of dark leafies with tomatoes, avocado, homemade dressing. Trout grilled to perfection by my dad, garnished with citrus and honey. Tasty little sliders of organic beef. Grilled veggies (Mushrooms, onions, bell peppers! Oh my!) And, for dessert, Adieâs fluffy yoghurt pie and Nancyâs mouthwateringly fudge-y brownies. Expensive white wine, water, and craft IPA to drink.
I sit and soak it all in, realizing how easy it is to forget this feeling of unconditional familial love when Iâm away. Easy to forget how blessed I am with people who care about me, who squeal with excitement when I get home and drill me with questions and lapping up my answers for ten minutes before I am once more a part of the clan, listening to their jokes, stories, playful bickering. Itâs nonstop talking, laughing, and the occasional dash out into the rain to show off a new dance step someone had learned or still remembered as afternoon turns to evening turns to night and the men go inside to wash dishes and watch golf.Â
I get a settled feeling--right in the middle of...my stomach? My chest? It feels like itâs right in the middle of me, a heavy contentment that relaxes all my muscles and gets rid of all my tension. I soak it all in and remember that I fucking love family, my family, my mismatched sock drawer of a family--dancers and musicians and their left-footed or tone deaf partners, conversely seen as the steady, quietly smiling men enjoying the excited chatter and teasing of their artistically inclined wives. Funnily enough, I often fall into the category of the silent and smiling after the first few minutes of excitement, but I know that I have all of them within me.
I come from an Old World lineage--people who work incredibly hard to support their families and find great joy and pride in their clean, unassuming lives. Intelligent, curious, witty, talented, capable humans who are strange and eccentric and unapologetically them.Â
This will always be my goal. I can work incredibly hard and say that I want to have my own business, a successful career, financial stability, adventures around the world, but I know that I will never be fully content if those accomplishments remain unaccompanied by family. If I can, some day, sit down around a table at the golden hour, turn on some latin jazz, and enjoy great food with great company, knowing that we are all of one wolf pack, I will have achieved greatness.
