Calais Court

I lived in a house on Calais Court in Grand Rapids, Michigan, for the first 18 years of my life. I still visit it when I go home, but after being away for about eight years, it has become a strange kind of home to me. It is still familiar and still a place where I feel safe, but it doesn't quite feel like my home anymore. From the outside, it is a fairly large two-story suburban house with white siding, brick accents, a wide driveway, and an attached garage. The front yard is green and open, and the house sits surrounded by identical homes just like it. When I picture it as a child, though, I don't really picture the house itself. I picture the neighborhood around it: kids riding bikes in the cul-de-sac, people mowing their lawns, and the general feeling that there was always something happening outside. Most of my memories of the house are actually about what it sounded like. There was almost always a television on, often hockey, with people talking somewhere nearby. Our African grey parrot would occasionally join in with whatever nonsense it had decided to say that day. From downstairs, I might hear music, or my brothers playing video games. The house was rarely completely silent when people were around, but I also spent a lot of time there alone. But when I was alone, I would put in background noise because I had trouble with the silence. I still struggle with a silent house to this day. My bedroom was probably the most important room in the house to me. It was the biggest bedroom, and when I was young I chose to have the walls painted bright pink. Over the years, the room changed as I did. Posters, paintings, pictures, and decorations came and went. I rearranged the furniture in that room as often as the years passed, I always wanted to change up my current space but never leave it. I’m still this way now. I spent an enormous amount of time in that room. I slept, watched TV, studied, spent time on my phone, and generally figured out who I was. I was a high-achieving kid, but I hadn't really figured out what hobbies I enjoyed yet, so a lot of my free time was simply spent existing in my own space. Looking back, I think that house—and particularly my bedroom—is where I learned that I actually enjoy being alone. The house changed as my family changed. The house has been remodeled over the years. The floors are different, the furniture is different, the walls are different. Even my bedroom is different now. My brother still lives there and has taken over the my bedroom, which makes complete sense—he deserves to have the best room while he's the only kid left in the house, and my bedroom was the biggest. But when I walk into it now, I don't recognize it as my room anymore. Sometimes I feel sad that I didn't appreciate it more while it was mine and I have to rely on memory. I try to remember the house as it used to be while standing in the house as it is now. I can still picture the old walls and furniture even though they're gone. I know that someday, probably within the next couple of years, the house will be sold as my siblings grow up and everyone moves on with their lives. I think that is the strangest part of growing up. When I visit now, I still feel safe. I still love being there. But it isn't quite home anymore. I have built a new home for myself, with my own space, my cats, and a life that belongs to me. Calais Court was home for the first 18 years of my life, and in many ways it was the backdrop for becoming the person I am now. Maybe home isn't something that stays in one place forever. Maybe sometimes it is simply the place where you grew up, even after you have grown beyond it.