Home?

So I'm here at my parents' house, and sometimes it's weird. The house they live in has never been my home. They moved here when I was in college, leaving behind the house I consider home. But all of the stuff here is from the house in which I grew up. (Side note: why am I so grammatically inconsistent? I won't end a sentence with a preposition, but I will begin a sentence with an conjunction.) All of the pictures on the walls, the dishes, the furniture is the same. It creates a kind of conflict in me. I'm nostalgic for the things which are relics from my youth, but they're out of context here in this house. I feel like I'm never quite 'at home' here, but just visiting some person who has the exact same taste as my mother. Tonight we drove past my original home, and I was sad to see that the folks living there now have let it fall into disrepair. It was never a great house to begin with, but it's kind of gone to shit. Seeing that place drudged up so many memories. Childhood moments, like when my parents covered over the chimney in the living room with faux brick paneling (it was the 80's) and I was so worried that Santa wouldn't be able to get in, to my young adult days, when Dr. SOB and I lost a condom wrapper in that same living room and spent three hours looking for it. Being here has stirred up a lot of emotions for me. I thought I was supposed to be relaxing, damnit!