Wednesday, June 21, 2017
For five years, we've called you home, building memories within your cozy walls. You've been so good to us, and suddenly I'm crying thinking about saying goodbye. This weekend, we will move the last of our boxes and belongings from your rooms. I'll sweep up whatever dust bunnies are lurking in forgotten corners, and a new family will fill you up with the mixture of laughter and heartache that makes a life. I hope you know that I will never forget you. How could I?
It was here that we built a new life in a new place. The first city we called home together that we really felt we could put down roots and stay awhile. You are the first home Everett has ever known, and the first home Kaden will remember.
We sweat through project after project making you truly ours, so much so that I doubt your original owner would recognize you. We spent hours painting and polishing you, tearing you apart, and building you back up. Perhaps that's part of why saying goodbye stings just a bit more than I expected.
We watched fireflies dance through the woods outside your kitchen window on summer nights; we watched quiet snow blanket the same scene in winter, while we nibbled beignets and drank cocoa.
Here we celebrated birthdays and anniversaries, orchestrated games of hide-and-go-seek, baked cookies, listened to rain storms, knelt in family prayer, read books curled up on the floor.
We cried here, a time or two--our faith growing while we shouldered some big burdens--but mostly we laughed and smiled, smiled and laughed. I'm thankful for every tear and every giggle. Every sadness and every joy. Thank you, house. Thank you.
With Love and Appreciation,
A Sentimental Mommy