Breaking Up

I’m sitting here at my kitchen counter watching three men carry the contents of my home out and load plywood crates up on a truck. The crates look as though they have moved a few hundred families already. I hope they can withstand one more voyage. As I sit here, our belongings march past me like some sort of strange parade. Rosie’s crib, my favorite overstuffed chair, a box of wine glasses, my best athleisure, the rug I picked out just for our foyer. There’s a pit in my stomach as I watch this display of our belongings. But it’s not really about the things, it’s about watching our home being emptied out.

I’m sorry house, it’s not you, it’s us. Over the past few weeks, I’ve slowly started breaking up with our home. It’s been a painful breakup. At first, the little things started to bother me. The doors that have no locks, the steep backstairs, the tiny kitchen nook, the way you can’t fully open the fridge. I’d say “Well, I won’t miss that”. And leaving felt a little easier. Then, I regressed, and I wanted to get back together with the house. I realized I loved the pocket doors that slide out into the parlor, how the hydrangea spills over the front stoop, the clawfoot tub that’s terribly ineffective but beautiful, the way that Rosie comes running down the hallway into our bedroom. Breaking up seemed hard again. Even though there’s a definitive end in sight as we prepare to close on the house next week, my heart sways back and forth.

I’ve started to view this journey like a tall staircase that has uneven stairs, some short steps, and some long steps. This step feels like a big one. Goodbye 38 Green, you’ve been good to us and I hope we’ve been good to you.

What I’ve been listening to this week: Ingrid Michaelson - Wonderful Unknown