My Heart, My Home
On April 22, 2002 a child was born. Born in Mercy Hospital a week after her due date, there were concerns about her body temperature and lungs. Six pounds, five ounces, and as aware as an ape, she was precocious. Placed under a bright light because of deficit concerns, her parents looked at her. Before the infant’s birth her father didn’t know if he wanted to be a father, but her mother was harboring euphoria. When born, her father thought of her beauty, her mother thought of her intelligence. They wanted to stay in that moment forever, they wanted to spend the rest of their days in that hospital room where their child was born. That room would always be the room where their child was born, even if one of them flat lined there, that room would always be the home to the most joyous moment of their life. Parents always think so highly of their children, from the moment they enter this world their minds are filled with hopes, and dreams, and expectations. On April 22, 2002, at 1:51PM a child was born, that child was me.
For 13 years of my life I’ve grown up in the same house, under the care of my loving parents. My father a large man, with potential so high it touched the sky. My mother a small woman, caring, smart, full of equanimity. And then me, as fastidious a female cat, as shy as a squirrel, but as gregarious as a gorilla, I was blessed; I had a home, a family, I lived in an ostentatious yet optimistic, narcissistic yet nautical, and bourgeois yet beautiful town. A small speck of land in a small speck of the universe, touching the Bay of Casco, who I am, what I want, what I believe in, have all been formed by this town. All my childhood memories happened here, on this small speck of land, so small it’s seemingly nothing. My neighborhood overlooks the bay, and that beach down there, that was where I learned to swim. You see that pond over there? That was where I fed the ducks daily as a dot. And do you see that swing set in my front yard? That was where I first learned I could jump, and there would always be someone to catch me. This room was where I learned how to read, and on that TV I watched Dora with my dad. At nights, in that bed, my father would serenade me to sleep with stories of Stalin and Mao. And in my mother’s garden I wrote notes to the fluttering fairies. That hill over there, that’s where I go sledding every winter, and my back porch, that was where I had tea parties with my stuffed animals. Bill Clinton once said, “I believe in a place called hope,” Falmouth is my hope. This small speck of land in this small world may not seem like much, but to me it’s meaning is more magnificent than the world itself. This is where I’ve grown up, this is where I spent my childhood, this was where I found myself, this is my home.
For 13 years of my life I’ve grown up in the same house, under the care of my loving parents. My father a large man, with potential so high it touched the sky. My mother a small woman, caring, smart, full of equanimity. And then me, as fastidious a female cat, as shy as a squirrel, but as gregarious as a gorilla, I was blessed; I had a home, a family, I lived in an ostentatious yet optimistic, narcissistic yet nautical, and bourgeois yet beautiful town. A small speck of land in a small speck of the universe, touching the Bay of Casco, who I am, what I want, what I believe in, have all been formed by this town. All my childhood memories happened here, on this small speck of land, so small it’s seemingly nothing. My neighborhood overlooks the bay, and that beach down there, that was where I learned to swim. You see that pond over there? That was where I fed the ducks daily as a dot. And do you see that swing set in my front yard? That was where I first learned I could jump, and there would always be someone to catch me. This room was where I learned how to read, and on that TV I watched Dora with my dad. At nights, in that bed, my father would serenade me to sleep with stories of Stalin and Mao. And in my mother’s garden I wrote notes to the fluttering fairies. That hill over there, that’s where I go sledding every winter, and my back porch, that was where I had tea parties with my stuffed animals. Bill Clinton once said, “I believe in a place called hope,” Falmouth is my hope. This small speck of land in this small world may not seem like much, but to me it’s meaning is more magnificent than the world itself. This is where I’ve grown up, this is where I spent my childhood, this was where I found myself, this is my home.
Heartfelt and touching-full of beautiful memories that will hold you forever. Do keep this Katalina, as I think you will want forever.
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