Today my mother’s house sold. I find myself grieving once again. People keep saying, “It’s just a house!” and honestly my mom would probably say the same thing. But in this moment it feels more than that.
This house is a place that holds our secrets, our stories, our memories. A place that holds the smells of my childhood, the traditions, and the moments that made life special and fun.
It’s the place where our story is held. The place where we shared laughs, tears, joy, exciting news and heartbreaks. That house isn’t just a place, it’s a feeling. It’s the place where we’ve had Christmas’, Easters, Thanksgivings, birthday parties, pregnancy announcements, graduations, and so many other things. Those walls beautifully hold the many moments of our life together.
It’s the place my mother found out she was going to be a grandmother. The place that held my sister’s bridal shower and college graduation party. The place that blessed us with one-of-a-kind neighbors, who are now family. The place that my mother and I would share a chair and cuddle, even at the age of 35.
It’s the place that was our home, our memory keeper.
That home was so special because it’s where my mother was. It was her that made that place so great, so welcoming, and uniquely ours.
Now, she’s gone. Things are different.
The house is like a shell, an empty space. It holds memories and traditions, but the feeling is gone, because so is my mother.
Soon, there will be nothing left but empty walls and bare floors. A new family will come in and make it their own. I hope they know the love that built that home. I hope they know that while we will celebrate their new beginning, we will grieve for the new beginning we face. One without my mother and without my childhood home, but not without the love, the memories, and the endless blessings that this home held so beautifully.
©️ Happiness, Hope & Harsh Realities. Written January 2018.
I drove past my mom’s old house recently.
A few thoughts raced through my mind:
“She would be shocked at that mess they made of the yard”
“She would never have that on the porch”
It hasn’t been “her” house for 10 years. But it will always be “her” house. The smells of Thanksgiving dinner that permeated the ways.
As I drove down the street, I looked back for good measure, and I swear I saw her on the porch, waving until I rounded the corner, like she used to do.