Saying Goodbye To My House.
This Friday, I’m moving from the house I’ve called home for the past eight years.
It feels like losing a treasured friend.
This house, my house, has been a love affair. One with ups and downs, but as is the case with all grand romances, it has been those lows which have made the highs so sweet.
Packing nearly a decade worth of ‘stuff’ has been no easy task (and one I have yet to complete) but what about the things that you can’t put into boxes?
How do you bundle up the memories and the energy from a special place?
Is it really possible to bottle parts of your life and keep them forever?
When it comes to this house, I’m greedy. I want to remember everything from my time here.
My daughters wearing nothing more than nappies, finger-painting the unrenovated walls. All their birthday parties in the back garden – fairies, science, pool. All the cakes I made to match them.
My husband covered in dirt and satisfaction from working in the garden.
Easter and all the Christmas moments – trees, wreaths, over-flowing tables filled with family and friends.
Moments I stole for myself, sitting on a sun soaked window-seat with a bucket of tea and a book.
I want to take it all.
I’d like to pack up the summers when the scent of frangipani and jasmine filled every inch of every room. The winters when my orange and lemon tree bore fruit.
Swimming in dark.
Drinks, dinners, anniversaries…sad days, bad days…I loved every imperfect hour.
As I get ready to the close its door for the last time, I keep returning to a passage from ‘On the Road’ by Jack Kerouac:
“What is that feeling when you’re driving away from people and they recede on the plain till you see their specks dispersing? – it’s the too-huge world vaulting us, and it’s good-bye. But we lean forward to the next crazy venture beneath the skies.”
I know these skies hold new adventures – fabulous and formidable – but I shall only look back in thanks at my time in a house which has been so much more than a home