I left the house where I’d lived for almost 11 years and didn’t look back, driven by adrenaline to the new place, the now, the future.
I spent Tuesday unpacking and directing movers, then fell into a strange bed with strange sounds chugging through unfamiliar walls, and I barely slept the night, my adrenaline crash simmering around me. Up on Wednesday, I set about unpacking from almost the minute I awoke, getting my new house in order.
And all day yesterday, a steady stream of friends and other people came to set up my dream house, my finally, so that we can live here easily, fluidly, happily.
Late in the day, as I backed out of the long driveway to get the kids from school, I felt a wave of melancholy wash over me. That was my house through so many moments, so many hours, so many thoughts and fears and successes and failures. So many sunrises, so many sunsets, so many breezes through open windows, so many leisurely strolls on a Saturday afternoon through the teeming neighborhood.
“You could go by and see it one more time,” Dan said through the open car window. I hesitated, pursed my lips. “But honey,” he said, tenderly, his eyes shining, “it’s not your house anymore.”
Tears rimmed my eyes. His too. “I know,” I said.
And just as I told my eldest son, who similarly missed the past as we aren’t quite transitioned fully, wholly, into the next phase, we could go back and take one last look, but all the memories have left. The rooms now echo with emptiness. Even our boxes are lifted away.
Still. I can’t quite shut the door so absolutely on more than a decade of my life. This morning, after I drop the kids at school, I’ll go to take one last look and say a final farewell. It’s unnecessary, I know, but one last threshold to close the door on the past and walk fully into a beautiful sun-rising future.