The rhythm of my Montego Bay sandals echo as they strike the floor in this now empty living room. Once fully furnished, complete with a polished baby grand piano from Hailun, it now feels abandoned. My stomach aches from the hollow emptiness caused by the loneliness of this moment. It’s like a black hole sucking up all the vital organs in my abdomen. I stare out the window recalling other times; times when happier sounds echoed off the walls of this space. A bittersweet smile reflects my thoughts.
At Christmas time a tree would be erected where I stand in front of the large window with the picturesque view. “Are you done yet daddy?” the echoed voice of a little girl from years before comes into my mind as I fall into a wakened dream. I can see the shadow of a six year old in a red cotton night shirt and pink footy pajama bottoms. She shuffles toward the specter of Tom as he rummages through the fake tree expanding the wire branches. I can feel her excitement to start the holiday season as we always have done. An excitement she will unfortunately lose as she grows into a teen.
“Almost!” a scruffy faced Tom in green sweat pants and a black and red flannel shirt responds as he focuses his attention to the details of the tree. It was a family tradition to decorate the tree together the day after Thanksgiving. I would always complain about putting the fake tree together that in the end made just as much of a mess as a real tree. Though had we gotten a real tree Tom would only have complained about that too. It was a wonderful time to have all four of us together like that. It will be missed.
“Who would like some hot chocolate?” I can hear the hollow echo of Gina’s voice across time. She would be in the kitchen preparing one of the many meals she has made with love for her family so many times. A duet of “Me!” and “Me too!” immediately followed from my chocolate loving daughter and me. We would look at each other and smile in anticipation of the delicious treat.
I turn and look at the empty wall where the sofa once was. I can see Gina sitting on the sofa carefully unpacking the ornaments while Tom tests and strings the lights at the wall socket next to her. Perry Como’s version of Home for the Holiday’s would play softly from a cheap pair of external speakers made for a computer but plugged into an mp3 player instead. I can feel a chill in my spine as I hear the music in my mind. Our mugs of hot chocolate would sit steaming on the end tables getting sipped as the tree comes to life. The girls would hang the less fragile ornaments leaving the more precious items to their mom; like the Hidden Mickey ornament with all our names on the ears and “Our Family” boldly printed on the center ball. I sniff. I swear I could smell the chocolate from the mugs.
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I step away from the window breaking my revery and walk into the likewise empty dining room where the twenty year old dinning room set had once been. It was the set that we had bought when in our first home. Gina could not wait to replace it after moving into this house but funds were diverted to other priorities. As it turns out we never needed to replace it. Instead, it was sold for two precent of its original price at the estate sale.
I sold almost everything I owned at the estate sale. Okay, perhaps it was everything Tom owned. I was reluctant at first of course. There were so many memories behind these things. I don’t know why but I felt a need to hang onto these memories, Tom’s memories. Letting these things go would mean letting the memories go and ultimately forgetting who I was. I wasn’t ready to do that. How could I do that? I am me because of my experiences and memories.
In the end however the decision was made. These things, Tom’s things, they are just things, and things that represent Tom. The memories will always be inside of me. Disposing of these things will not separate me from the memories of Tom, but merely the physical things that represent Tom. I soon became comfortable...... no, eager to purge myself of Tom’s things.
Purging is something that is familiar to transsexuals. Many go through several cycles of purging throughout our lives. Usually it relates to the acquisition of clothing and accessories of our target gender and then the disposal of them as we suddenly decide cross dressing is not right. Some of us actually believe we can stop cross dressing. Ultimately our souls will once again be driven toward our proper gender; like a crab molting only to regrow its shell.
This purge though was different. Here I disposed of those things that were Tom’s. It was a reverse purge. Whereas a sense of loss came with purging my girl things, this purge came with a new found sense of freedom, like a child might feel at the end of the last school day before summer.
I continue through to the Kitchen. The sunlight shines in through the one window above the sink and the double wide sliding glass doors that lead to the deck. The light glistens off the clean granite counter tops, glass tile backsplash and stainless steel appliances. It is my favorite room complete with an island that allowed multiple people to work in the kitchen at the same time without getting in each others way. Gina and I both loved to cook and knew what we wanted when we designed this kitchen. We had gutted it to the studs and remodeled the entire room just for our needs.
“Colonel Mustard in the library with the knife.” I hear the shadowy figure of my youngest daughter say as she takes her turn during one of our family game nights. I stare at the space where the kitchen table used to be. The four of us are sitting around the table in our cozy jammies laughing and playing as we have done many times before. I smile at the memory as my heart aches at the loss of such simple pleasures.
I look towards the basement door. I see the girls comparing their heights arguing who is taller. “Let’s measure you against the door girls.” Tom can be heard as he walks into view and opens the door. There are markings of the girls heights from years before on the backside of the solid wood door.
I walk towards the basement door dispelling the vision and look behind me at the prep area. “How much milk do I need mommy?” My youngest asks as she is measuring out the ingredients for macaroni and chess from the box. “What does it say on the box?” Gina replies. “Oh! I don’t know. I threw the box out.”
I smile yet tears blur my vision and I am left with the quiet empty kitchen. I feel sick to my stomach as my subconscious is on her bed face down crying into her pillow. Though the nostalgia in me basks in the memories. There is no more laughter; no more “I’m hungry” or “when are we eating”. There is no more clinking of the glasses or dishes. No more pots and pans clattering to life whenever a sauce or soup was being made. No more anything, just,... just silence and - emptiness. I feel the emptiness where my heart used to be. My stomach beats faster as eyes begin to tear. I slowly weep at this conclusion that is now my reality.
I run into the family room to plop down on the couch and cry, but I can not. The couch is no longer there. Everything was either sold or packed and stored; the house is empty. All I can do is sit on the cold stone hearth with my elbows on my knees and head in my hands. I sit weeping like a lost child when something catches my eye. I look up and survey the room and notice a picture on the wall. My heart does flips in my stomach. My subconscious gasps and stares at me with her mouth gaping wide. This is my final walk through. Everything should be out, how was this left behind? I get up and stare at the picture. I weep uncontrollably.
It was a picture of my mom and dad. It was taken shortly before my dad passed away. I suddenly feel him kissing my forehead. I can hear him telling me everything will be alright. I can hear him tell me he loves me. I take the picture off the wall and wrap my arms around it pulling it snugly against my chest. I cry.
I am not sure how long I stood there crying, but finally clear my head and continue the walk through the rest of the house holding the picture close to me for comfort. I look through the basement which was supposed to have been my “man cave”. What a joke. It was more like my tranny cave. “Quick Robin! To the Tranny Cave!”. I wonder what the Tranny mobile would look like. I imagine it would be transformer. Though my “tranny cave” was a place for someone to change persona, it wasn’t quite for a superhero. I used it as a place to cross dress in private in the middle of the night.
I remember trying on my first pair of heels down here. They were six inch black stiletto platform sandals with contrasting red ribbon ankle strap and satin bow tie. They were the kind of a shoe one might see worn at a strip club. In fact, the company was called Pleaser which makes sexy shoes commonly purchased for halloween and erotic dancers. Yes, and there I was prancing around my basement in these shoes. I can still hear the sound of their clatter echoing across time and memory. My subconscious smiles at the thought and even laughs a bit, What a silly cross dresser you were. She says. I lean on the stairwell railing looking through my memories at the empty room. I shake my head in comical disbelief and agreement. I turn and head for the upper level of the house, where the bedrooms and office are.
Two of the bedrooms were for my daughters. Looking in I can see the ghostly shapes of their furniture and things that were once in the room. I see the detail down to their clothes rolled up into a ball tossed in the corner of the room where they sat for God knows how long. I can smell the rancid odors that their mess had produced at times and see the cluttered dresser tops and unmade beds where they would often lay and play on their iPads. Now the lonely rooms sit still and empty.
The office is were I worked and conducted most of my personal and professional business. I had discovered many things in this space; about my career and about myself. It was here that I was able to cultivate my cross dressing fetish using the latest of technologies - the internet. It was here that I learned this fetish was actually a well known and well documented condition. It was here I learned of the term transgender and what it meant to me; that it wasn’t actually a fetish. It was here that my exploration into the unknown reaches of my universe had flourished. It began the ending of my life as I had known it for so long. I spent a good portion of my life in this room and I had no real desire to spend anymore there. I was happy to leave this space behind. I move to the master bedroom.
The spacious master suite consists of a walk in closet, two corner closets, bench storage and a full bath. At one time we had a Tempurpedic bed which was by far the most comfortable bed I’ve ever owned. I can go on to tell many stories about the things that happened in this room, however, they are not just my stories to tell. I share them and this space with my one true love; though we are no longer romantically together. The finality of it hits me and once again the tears flow. Damn! Will I ever get used to these hormones. My subconscious snickers and shakes her head at me.
The master bath was another alteration of ours. We expanded it to give us an extra large shower stall with body jets. It was often one of the more relaxing places to be; for as long as the hot water lasted anyway.
I step in front of the sink and look up into the mirror. I see this woman looking back at me with a sadness in her eyes. Suddenly the reflection changes and she is no longer there but instead replaced with the familiar face of a man; no, a boy, the boy; the boy in the mirror.
I stare at the image for sometime before speaking out loud to it. “This is your home.” I say to him. “Not mine.”
“Mine, Gina’s and the girls’ actually, or at least it was.” he replies.
“I don’t belong here.”
“Yet you are having such a hard time letting go of it.
“Not of it, just the memories.”
“You will always have the memories, you don’t need to live here for those.”
“No, that is true, but it’s still not an easy thing; leaving.”
“...and why is that exactly.”
“You don’t know?” I ask.
“Of course I do, I am you, we are one and the same. But tell me, I want to hear it. You need to hear it spoken”
I considered his request and start to formulate my response in my head. But that’s not what he wants. He wants the emotion which was a good thing since that is what I spewed forth.
“It’s more than saying goodbye to a house. I’m saying goodbye to my life as it once was; my life as you. I am mourning. I thought this would have been easier.” The tears stream down my face.
“I remember one of our earlier conversations right here in front of this same mirror, except I was stuck in the mirror then. How I laughed my evil laugh at you promising you that I will be victorious. Your destruction dripping off the tip of my tongue like a salivating dog watching its owner pour food into a bowl.”
“By the end of the month I will have released myself of almost everything that is you; your house, your career and even your manhood.”
I bow my head in despair for a moment and sigh. I take a deep breath look up and continue, “I thought this moment would have been exciting and happy for me.” I whimper. “Though it seems I am reluctant to let go of you.”
There is pause of silence before Tom speaks up. “It’s okay you know. I did my job and I am done now. It is your turn. Be you and be free and don’t look back. Take yourself and your girls and go on this new adventure with heads held high and good spirits. You deserve it, we deserve it.”
I stare into the mirror; into his eyes so understanding, for a seemingly long time. I memorize every line and crease on our face. How much it has changed in such a few years. I managed to crack a smile and once again see a woman in the mirror; this time however she looks happy. I turn my head away and with a bit of a skip I exit the bathroom for the last time.
I lock up and leave the house. As I walk to my car I take in the beautiful summer weather and deeply breath in the crisp dry air. A feeling of freedom comes over me; like making that last payment of a loan. I ponder the possibilities for my future. My subconscious is sitting reading a paper. A cup of coffee is on the table with her passport next to it. She sticks her nose up over the paper and smiles with bright smiling eyes. The front page headline reads “The War is Over”. I open the door to my car and looking at the house. I pause for short moment. smiling. In a soft voice I whisper “Goodbye Tom.”
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Originally Posted by STACY B
