A Lost Home, a Lost Family, and a Tequila Bottle Filled With Dirt

Sometimes, losing one’s identity is harder than losing a person.

Photo by author.

The house I am looking at is my own. Or, at least, it was. My blood and the work of my hands composed its formation. But I cannot go inside. I can only stand here and wonder what could have been.

It was 1998 and I was in second grade. A major change was about to occur. My family home had always been on Elm Tree Drive, an under-developed part of my small town. Our real home, however, was at my grandmother's.

The Kleeberger homestead had always circulated around my grandmother’s property on the other side of town. In our small town’s infancy, this area used to be rural. In fact, my grandparents lived on something more akin to a farm than in a neighborhood. Fortunately, it encompassed a larger chunk of property than was normal for the area. We spent most days here. If there was a meal to be had, it was at grandma’s house. So, when the property next door went up for sale, my parents bought it immediately.

Technically, our new house was only a mile or two away. However, as the town grew, this area became its own district. What had become a historic road also became the gateway to the rich neighborhood. We called it “The Colony.” Being the gateway to such a…