The retreat to Westchester was a frustrating one. A child again, dependent on parental figures, a house full of people. Plus it was a mess, so I spent the early months just tidying and fixing things up, even to the point of renovating one of the bathrooms — new toilet, sink, floor, everything. But I suppose it kept me busy and feeling accomplished.
This particular region seemed odd though, disjointed and in decline. Certain stores were in the next state over, and many groups of people occupied the same space without intermingling, all very distinct. There were fancy little towns with nannies strolling children to the ice cream parlor, ghettos, dilapidated suburban neighborhoods, cities with corridors of giant buildings.
As far as what I liked, that ice cream parlor in the fancy little town was within walking distance. I also went to a lovely old cemetery filled with lots of prominent names — and walking around large scenic cemeteries is an underrated activity, it’s very serene. I also went row-boating on a small lake, something I always wanted to do. And of course it was nice not to worry about money, all food and supplies were paid for by the relatives.
But money could not buy happiness. No matter how much I tried to adjust to the surroundings, this wasn’t home. I wanted to go back to the previous place, the one that felt more like home than my actual home ever did. So after 12 months, I had an irresistible urge to leave immediately, but how could I afford it — so I did what any spoiled child would do, I called up my mom and was able to secure the funding for a gently-used single-wide mobile-home in a pleasant little trailer park near the beach. She had some spare change after my father passed.