Hello friends. This weekend we moved my mom out of my childhood home and into an apartment closer to us. It was very bittersweet. It always is when you’re doing something that you don’t necessarily want to do, but know it’s the right choice to make for now.
I didn’t think I would get emotional, but as my sister and I sorted through the last box in the basement, we couldn’t help but feel a little nostalgic. It was a box of dress up clothes- my mom’s old cheerleading uniform, my great grandmother’s moo moo, my dad’s bright orange hunting hat, an ugly red vest we used to fight over.
It reminded us of the many times we played together right there in the basement. We dressed up, we put on plays, we danced, we had our friends over for movie nights, we ran from room to room jumping from bed to bed, screaming and giggling.
That house is the green carpeted stairs that we slide down in sleeping bags, tumbling to the bottom in a heap.
That house is a ‘fruit room’ (pantry) that we swore a boogy man lived in at night.
That house is trading bedrooms, clothes, belongings, and furniture for a week with my sisters, just for fun.
That house is backyard dance concerts finished by ‘Hands Up Stands Up’ contests, running back handsprings across the grass, and choreographing to Can’t Touch This & Everybody Dance Now in the driveway, with my mom as the only cheerleader we needed.
That house is a long basement family room that we did cartwheels across and held impromptu fashion shows on a sheet turned runway carpet. A room that was just wide enough to fit the quilting frames my dad built for my mom so we could sit around the edges and tie blankets.
That house is a swing set in the back yard built by my dad when I was just five years old. I helped him roll the telephone poles out to the yard wearing his ten-times-too-big leather workman gloves and then watched him put on his climbing belt and scale the poles to secure them.
That house is a sewing room in which we all sat on our mom’s lap as little girls and helped her guide fabric underneath the pressure foot as she made frilly dresses, dance costumes, and school clothes for us.
That house is my dad’s presence- always felt and always near, even though he’s been long gone.
It’s hard to make changes and move on. It’s hard to say goodbye. That house is just a house- we are the people who created those memories and those feelings in all those rooms. We are still those people who will go on creating new family memories no matter where we live. We are grateful for the many years we spent under that roof and sad to say goodbye.