When we made the decision to put our home on the market, I said a very simple prayer: “Lord, please let someone buy our house who will love it as much as we have.” Within 48 hours of listing, we had a contract.
When we first bought that house, everything was pink. Everything. Pink walls, pink countertops, pink cabinets, pinkish linoleum. We poured so much love into that house to make it our own. In the eight years we lived there, we made it our home.
My husband thought I was
pregnant crazy because of the continuous eye-leaking. “Don’t you think this is even just a little
bit sad?” “Sure,” he said, “but it’s
more exciting. Do you think all those
memories are just going to stay there?”
My dad said that I should think about how exciting it is for the girl who bought our little home, that it’s a new beginning for someone else. I know he’s right. But it doesn’t feel right having someone else living in our home when we still don’t feel at home in our new space.
As my mind pours through all of our experiences in that space, I wonder if she can feel the ghosts of our memories, or if she is busy making new ones.
I keep thinking about the day we brought Little K home from the hospital. He was nine days old. I was certain that he thought we lived at the hospital – because obviously my genius son had some seriously advanced cognitive abilities at nine days old – so I took him on a tour of our house. I told him about every room, introduced him to his big sister, Daisy, and snuggled them both on the couch. I can recall the exact spot in the living room where Little K took his very first step as I squealed with delight.
Maybe it’s the earlier memories that haunt the walls. The memories of a young couple still struggling to transition into adults. Maybe the scent of the hundreds of cigarettes smoked on the back steps still lingers. The laughter of dozens of back yard barbecues might still hang in the air. Maybe she can sense the board games played and the bottles of wine drank. The loud parties and game nights might still swirl through the air in excitement on holidays and unplanned Friday nights.
Maybe she will feel the losses we mourned, the friendships we created, and the fights we fought.
Maybe she can hear the desperate tears cried over yet another negative pregnancy test. Or the intense celebration after that positive result finally came. Maybe in the quiet moments she can hear the quiet lullabies that were sung through the tears of a heart brimful with love. Maybe the hallway still creaks with the steps that walked up and down and up and down the hallway with a colicky baby.
Maybe she can feel the love shared between two head-strong soul mates who often slow-danced in the kitchen. The kind of love that has and will endure all.
I hope that’s the kind of love that continues in our little house on Westmoor Walk. I hope she can grow her life the way we grew ours, that she can pour more love into those walls.
I wonder if that little house will always feel like our little house. Because right now, even though our lives have fallen into our normal routines – despite that I know where nothing is – I feel like we are walking around in a parallel universe. The actions are the same, but the surroundings are foreign. And every. single. morning. I have no clue where I am upon waking.
I’m certain our new home, as we continue to paint and replace and tear out and repair into space, will soon enough feel our own. As we pour love into this house, it will inevitably feel like home – and maybe soon I will stop accidentally driving to the old house. But right now, I feel like that little house will always, always feel like home.
I am sad to leave you behind little house, but I thank you, and all of our friends and neighbors on Westmoor Walk, for keeping us In Good Company.