The other day my sister and I were driving around in our old neighborhood. Every time we are in the area, we make it a habit of swinging by our old house. Some might call it stalking, others admiring, others reminiscing. Call it what you like, it had become our little tradition. We never did more than swing by the house, though, preserving it in our memories while wondering what exactly had changed inside the lovely abode. Finally, the wondering has ended. I decided as we swung by the house for the thirteenth year in a row, that today was the day. We were going to knock on the door and see if anyone was home.
Speech in head prepared and ready, my sister parked the car. Blood pressure rising, sweat collecting beads on forehead, I exited the car and walked up the small pathway to the front door. Out of nowhere a huge dog came swooping round the corner, teeth showing, growling and barking. I reached my hand out to knock on the door, but just as my hand hit the glass, the door creaked ajar and I was greeted by a pair of sparkling white teeth. “Hi there!” “Hi, my name is Ms.Musings.” “Musings, yeeeeeeeeeeeeeess. Hello, come in.” It’s almost like she read our minds. She knew why we were there. I waved to my sister who approached the front door and we both entered our old house for the first time in thirteen years.
Some things had changed, much had stayed the same. Projects my parents had begun were completed, others were renovated into something entirely different. The family who moved in had gotten divorced and their two kids were nearly grown. The wife stayed behind and just bought the home. Much like we had loved it and nurtured it, so had she. She spoke of her projects and the nooks and crannies of the house with great pride. These walls had seen three families, the raising of seven different children, pregnancy, divorce, death, families moving in, families moving out. What dawned upon me irrevocably and eternally, however, was that this house was no longer ours, it was hers now. It was not the space that made the house, it was the people. When we left, the house ceased to be ours. We had moved on, and so had it.
During those thirteen years when we would swing by the house periodically, I remembered the house exactly how it was. My room, our backyard, our kitchen. The cedar closet where my dad hung his sweaters and we used to hide. Crystallized in time, those memories were entirely mine. They were pure, idyllic, and unchanged. Now the house had taken on a different character in my mind. It was the home of its current owner and her two grown children. I finally accepted that fact. Simultaneously I understood my parents’ decision to move on, in a way that a tween never could. No longer devastated by childhood anxiety, I realized just what the move meant for the first time, just how good and right it was. I forgave them wholeheartedly, after all these years. “I could never have been so brave as to walk into my old house,” the new owner noted. I smiled at her, not sure what to say. After a pause, I said, “Thank you. I am glad I did.” I truly was.
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