Last summer my parents finally got down to replacing the front bay window. They took away the old one which was the original window from when the house was built back in the 60s and also (thankfully) got rid off the butt-freaking-ugly awning that resided over the window. This spring my dad and brother revamped the garden putting in flower beds and planting a plethora of perennials and annuals that have totally transformed both the backyard as well as the front garden into a riot of colour and beauty.
When talking to my mum earlier today she told me that they've just finalised with a contractor with regards to doing up the kitchen. The old and outdated flooring, counters and cabinets are all going; new appliances are moving in and the old walls are literally getting busted down to make way for a window/counter top looking into the dining room.
We knew that there was work to be done when we bought the house. Some of these changes were long overdue; we didn't even have a properly working dishwasher for crying out loud and the backyard had been a tangle of weeds when we moved in. Everything was moving according to plan.
I love that my dad, the consummate gardener has the rose bushes that he has always wanted and that my mum will finally have a kitchen that is a help, not a hindrance. But I'm just a little sad that I'm not there to share in these little (and big) events. So much is changing. Will I even recognise places and people when I get back home?
But then again, so much has changed about me as well. I am, in many ways not the person I was when I left. Will they recognise me?