We are moving.
I’ve spent the last few weeks slowly packing up my family’s life. Now our walls are bare, the cupboards are nearly empty, and I’m starting to feel like a ghost in my own home.
I will cry when I close the door for the last time. I love my home. I didn’t think I would feel this way, but the closer we get to our final day here, the sadder I am. It’s just a thing, but we’ve been through so much together.
It’s my first home. My husband and I bought it shortly after we were married, seven years ago. We celebrated Christmases, birthdays, and pregnancies in those four walls. We also shed tears over the loss of a job, illnesses, and tough days. We brought our son home to this house, where he learned to crawl, walk, and explore.
Each room has memories. Over the last few days, I’ve tried to imprint the sounds, sights and smells on my mind so that I can go back and revisit them after we’re gone. I put a lot of myself into this house- remodeling rooms, keeping it clean, and decorating to the best of my ability. It bears the marks of my love.
In some ways, this house is my child.
I’ve cared for it with my own two hands, stayed up late worrying about it, and cuddled up with it on cold winter nights. I know the sounds this house makes, how to tend to it as the seasons change, and can navigate it in the dark. It’s even given me a grey hair or two.
Don’t get me wrong, I am excited to move into our new home. The first time we toured it, I knew it was the one. I immediately envisioned my family’s future there. I saw a Christmas tree, children playing in the backyard, and family dinners. I felt the love of the family that had lived there before us. It felt like coming home.
While I look forward to the next chapter in our lives and getting to know a new house, I do so with a slightly heavy heart. After all, our new house will be a house of many firsts, but it will never be our first house.