home again, home again
The Zimmerman family patio, Cincinnati, Ohio
I’m currently rocking (actually, gliding) on one of the stuffed chair-and-ottoman sets I persuaded my parents to purchase for their covered back patio 13 years ago. When they redid this space. I encouraged them to splurge on this set because I not only understood the familial history of our backyard, but how important it was to honor this special place in our lives.
I’ve always loved the backyard at my parents’ home. The house sits on a corner lot with three big trees spaced across the yard and a worn privacy fence that extends just far enough to create the kind of lush cozy space that summer dreams are made of. In our younger years, my siblings and I created obstacle courses for ourselves on the wooden swingset (long since donated to a family friend - or maybe friend of a friend) and agility courses for our beloved sheltie, Lexie. There were days when I twirled around on the red plastic seat of a rope swing, making up songs that I sang to myself as I kicked my feet against tree #2. Other times, I climbed tree #1, hung my backpack on the stub of a broken limb and did my homework while surveying the comings and goings of the street below. In our teenage years, my sister and I spread towels out and tanned on the long benches of the deck, spritzing our hair with Sun In and lazing long afternoons away. There were birthday parties, post-Confirmation parties, and all three of our high school graduation parties that happened back here - mine being especially memorable as we had to put Lexie down that morning and then met my sister’s new boyfriend (now husband) that afternoon.
Then, last summer before I moved to San Francisco, my best friends helped me plan a going away party that we held out here. I rented tables and chairs and thrifted vintage plates and we threw a garden party send-off with my closest friends and family. In addition to the original purpose of the party, it also served as a pseudo-wedding moment, one that my 104 year old grandmother could attend. 32 and deeply single, I knew that it would be nearly impossible for my grandmother to make it to my actual wedding day, if and when that may ever occur. Now, over a year later, I’m forever grateful that I obsessed over every detail: designing bespoke invitations, menus, and place cards; buying a special dress; convincing my friends and dad to say a few words. Friends and family traveled from California, Chicago, and Cleveland to be there. The evening was joyous and festive with sunlight filtering through the dense branches of the trees, a perfectly blended Spotify playlist I curated, and a prosecco-based specialty cocktail. Fourteen months later, I still grin every time I think of that evening and what it meant to me.
Today, I’m back and things are different. I decided to cap my time in San Francisco at a year and move home, despite part of my heart still being lodged there. My strong, beautiful grandmother, who was so full of life, died twelve days ago. Most of my belongings are sitting in the garage of her house in Chillicothe, a house that will soon be my temporary home for the next nine months or so. Her death both sits in my purview and hovers in my peripheral vision, thoughts and sadness too overwhelming to be fully crystalized yet.
Yesterday, I got my hair cut at my favorite Cincinnati salon and chopped five inches off. I’m exhausted and finally starting to get a bit fidgety as I pause in this intermission of sorts. In another week or two, I’ll be officially moving into my grandmother’s house and starting another chapter. The days are slowly creeping towards fall, but right now we’re in the last gasps of summer. Being in the moderate maritime climate of San Francisco, I forgot how strong the sun is here, how I can be sitting perfectly still and the heat will cling to every part of me, pockets of dampness spreading over my clothes. But the dryness of the air, the slight yellowing of some leaves on some trees reminds me that the season will shift and eventually the patio will be closed up once more. The backyard will slowly turn back into a rather bleak space, only accessed for the mini fridge filled with adult beverages next to the sliding door off the family room. The sounds and softness of this space will disappear for a while. And then I’ll wait through the succession of seasons until the warmth emerges again. My mom will lovingly nudge the garden back to life and my dad will pull the covers off the chairs and quiet afternoons will once again be spent gliding and listening and remembering and planning future memories.
