54 Perry Street

I did not grow up at 54 Perry Street. My parents moved to that address in 2004, well into the old-age retirement phase of their long marriage. The house where I grew up, where they raised our family (that was 84 Grand Avenue), that one got too unwieldy for their 70-something bodies. All those stairs, all those rooms. So, they moved about 1.7 miles to the other side of town, to 54 Perry Street, to a smaller, one-level, three-bedroom home more suited for an old, retired couple.

An address is just that, an address. So is a town, a city, a country … even a name. They are what they are. They come to life as we come to life; they are assigned meaning as we assign meaning to them. But just like a house becomes a home, an address begins to take on a life of its own; it becomes much more than directions for the mail carrier, or a location on Google Maps. And although my parents only lived in that house at 54 Perry Street for a shade over a decade, that home represented all my children knew of their grandparents, who they called Nana and Pop-pop. That was Nana and Pop-pop’s house. That was their safe haven in New Jersey; it was where they slept, padded around in their pajamas, watched Spongebob, ate ice cream, took baths. Similarly, for my parents, outside of frequent doctor appointments or less frequent trips to the grocery store, pretty much every waking and sleeping moment of their time was spent in the small confines of that home. They loved that home, and they personalized each and every room to that home.

Moving out of that home, and into assisted living, in December of 2015 was an emotional moment. My parents cried. They cried over leaving this home, but most likely over leaving the idea of having a place called home as well. The house remained vacant, with the unspoken (and very unrealistic) idea that perhaps one day they would move back there. Then, my father died last year, and with it the unrealistic notion that the home would be their home anymore vanished. After about a year on the real estate market, the home finally changes hands today. As with many things in life, this was not a sudden process; in fact, it was a cumbersome, dragged out series of events, many of which were annoyingly stress-inducing. But alas, after today, 54 Perry Street no longer belongs to our family. Our children, as well as the other grandchildren, no longer have that safe haven in northern New Jersey to call their own.

After removing the final remnants of stuff from the house yesterday, with the help of my good friend Krzysztof and his trusty hand-truck, the finality of today’s real estate closing hit me. After nearly 53 years on this planet, I no longer have a place in New Jersey that I can call home -- a place I can amble in unannounced, turn on the Yankee game, brew a cup of coffee, go to the bathroom, read the Star-Ledger or Daily Record, take a nap. For my parents, I imagine this is how they felt several decades ago, about 3333 Seymour Avenue and 681 East 239^th Street. The phases and stages, circles and cycles, of life … they happen to all of us. Today, it’s my turn to mourn the passing of a street address: 54 Perry Street.