The Faint Smell Of Magnolia

I just feel like it should mean something. Standing alone in the abandoned rooms of my childhood home, listening to the sound of my shoes against the cold hardwood floors, I can’t help but feel as though I should be sad, or at the very least, sentimental. I remember the series of Christmas trees standing in the corner of the living room, the afternoons spent reading on the big purple couch, the smell of the large magnolia blossoming outside my window in Spring. I remember the person I once was between these walls, the family that we used to be, the memories that I had to rearrange upon discovering that my parents were no longer in love. I remember every moment that I can, only to find myself feeling like none of it means anything, feeling apathetic to my past.

I hate feeling indifferent, and so I often find myself trying to force an emotion, wanting to feel things that my head tells me I should be feeling, wanting my heart to follow some kind of logic. If someone were filming the story of my life, this moment would be deeply emotional. The sappy, self realization music would swell in the background as I stood alone in the naked framework of my house, saying goodbye to the structure, to the metaphorical manifestation of my childhood. “Goodbye youth,” I’d whisper, turning out the final light.

I try to imagine this as I wander through each room, running my hand over the walls I’ve touched so many times before. I play tear evoking songs in my head in the hopes of conjuring up some kind of sentimental closure. Nothing comes. It never comes. I can’t force myself to feel an emotion any more than I can force myself not to feel an emotion. I have no control over my heart.

Instead, I stand there feeling nothing but the guilt of feeling nothing but guilt. I want so desperately to care, but no matter how hard I try, I just can’t. I’m just ready to move on. I guess the truth is, I said goodbye to the house that I once knew the day my mother moved out. I’ve already been through the emotional detachment. My childhood home was reduced to just a building a long time ago.

Still, I worry that in the future I’ll regret missing out on this final goodbye, this defining moment when I left my house for the last time. I worry that the emotional gravity of this ending will hit me later when I least expect it, when it’s too late to return and seek closure. I worry that the faint smell of magnolia will reduce me to tears.

Perhaps that’s the way it’s supposed to be. Perhaps it never really is goodbye. I’ll pack the house in a box in my mind and carry it with me into the future, the memories of each room echoing within the framework of my heart.