Sometimes I watch old videos on my cell phone. Videos of my dogs, in my old house, barking or playing around. Other times just recordings I did with my GoPro when it was new. Other times, when I briefly stop by in person, I glance around and I see all those things that once were mine and the work I did on it.
Just outside the door there’s a patch of gras. How I worked to make sure the gras would grow there. It grows really nice now, I can see that. Behind that small patch of gras, there’s at least two rowanberry trees. I remember those well. They have grown so much! It was my mother who suggested I could plant them because apperantly they are useful for something. I remember walking into the forest to find some of them. I dug them up, took them with me and planted them by our house. They are still there, growing. Not all of them, but a few.
On the other side of the house there’s my redcurrant bush I managed to plant there. There’s also the (now) large bush of blackcurrant I planted. The then small plant have grown considerably since then.
Some of what I did has not fared so well because of my ex-wife non-ability to take care of it. Like the flowers by the veranda. They are not really there anymore. Weeds are growing in the driveway like no other, again because she can’t take care of anything properly.
Why am I writing this?
I miss my house sometimes. It’s like I just left it behind. It’s still there, just growing freely and wildly. It’s like there’s no one there any more. The house and the garden is just there continuing on without me. It is a peculiar feeling, and a somber feeling. There’s nostalgia connected to it as well. Sometimes that was so firmly rooted as mine. My project. Something that I was fully in charge over, and could do whatever I wanted with. At my own pace and my own terms.
There’s another way of doing things now. More chefs. More trouble. More difficult. Like the room that is intended for my daughter. I want to start fixing it. Sure, I’ll even paint it even if I think it’s a complete waste of time. Inside this room there’s a huge IKEA bed. I figured that if I was to start painting anything in that small room I had to dismantle that bed no one ever used except me for a couple of months. And so I started. Well, I grabbed a tool to dismantle it with. Then my father-in-law came and suggested I should just leave it for now, but he made it clear it was up to me. Then my girlfriend came and said the same thing. Why not keep it and paint anyway?
No! I don’t want it there when I paint. I had a plan, and now it’s all confusing and I lost all inspiration doing it. And so I put the tool back in its box. I haven’t touched it since. I just don’t understand why things can be done easier. I guess I was really spoiled when I was the sole master of my own house. My ex-wife didn’t really care. She was a city girl. Gardens were unheard of in her vocabulary. I was in charge.
And so when these things happen I just miss my house and my own pace, projects. I miss my blackcurrant bush, the gras I spent hours making to look nice. The redcurrant, my tulips in the now wilderness of a past flowerbed. I have been making a few things here too, notably weeding out a large area behind the house with my mom. Here, I simply have a feeling I am doing it for my girlfriend and not for us. There’s no ownership from my side to it. Neither paper-wise or feelings. My feel of ownership is back at my old house. I guess I still feel that it is my home and my real house. Because it was my mine. When my girlfriend are tired from four night shifts, she says the most rude things like “this house is mostly mine and will always be mine” or “you came here to a set table”. Like I am the one being spoilt and having it all easy. It’s the other way around. She doesn’t know what it’s like to leave a home for a new one. All the things you leave behind. Stuff you can’t bring. Like the room itself, a plant or a bush. Even emotions and feelings of ownership. It’s all there. The feeling you have when you simply give it all away to someone else. It’s yours now, all of this. I have no ownership any longer.
I miss my house, and it’s been three years now. No one will understand this. Not my ex-wife and not my girlfriend. No one. Just me.