When my parents sold my childhood home, I was an adult and had moved out on my own. Despite my own independence, I was upset they had sold the home that I had so many memories in. It was the only house that my baby brother had ever known. I remember them bringing him home from the hospital. The door frame to the basement had notches carved in it. Next to each notch was a sibling’s name and their age. The concrete front steps were where I had my first kiss. The backyard held memories of playing witches, house, and protect the fort. *editors note:Yea, witches.I think at one point we actually believed we could do magic or were magical in some way. Maybe we were… Hocus Pocus was popular then and later The Craft would fascinate me in middle school..*
I remember when they painted our house this strange mauvey-pink. I remember Christmas and birthdays. The time my sister was big enough to fight back and I never fought her again. I remember thinking having a black light in my room was THE COOLEST and going through weird teenage body stuff. I got a UTI when I was 12 and thought it was my period. I thought it was awesome. If I only knew… My mom would make us pose every holiday in front of the stairs for a picture. I remember learning how to drive the riding lawn mower and taking a turn a little to sharp and dinging the side of the mower- hoping no one would notice. I remember my dad going out after I had already mowed and mowing the places I missed. Little does he know that it was one of the only chores I actually enjoyed, I just was a little too hasty with control lever.
After all those memories and then some, it’s no wonder we become attached to the square feet we exist in much of our lives. Later in life, I moved in with a boyfriend. When we split, I couldn’t fathom how he could continue to live in a space we shared together. I seriously have no idea how people live in their homes after a divorce or being widowed. Seems like part of your consciousness lives within the walls- the shared blessings and sometimes the shared hurt.
I started packing up some of my apartment that I’ve lived in for three years today. It’s very semi-sweet. When I came here, what a disheveled mess I was. I was broken in every way possible. How many nights did I stumble home- whiskey drunk and crying. This bedroom was where I’d lie for hours, watching Breakfast at Tiffany’s and drinking the night away chatting to a strange group of internet friends. I will save my talks of social media and how it saved my life twice- once by being there and twice by realizing I was missing out on reality-for later.
I was depressed here. I was safe here. I moved in with a dear friend here. She would lay with me while I cried and we would watch Parenthood together. She would play with my hair and calm me when I was sad. I started going to therapy. I started dating again. Some of my single life will just stay here in these four walls, but I remember running up the stairs from a great date and the first time I had kissed someone I really liked by my front door. After believing love was a farce, it happening twice while I’ve lived here. I remember being so insanely nervous for a guy to come pick me up for a date that I nearly threw up in the bushes out front.
Drunken nights of old friends and Jimmy John’s wrappers. Melting into the bathroom floor holding hands singing Mariah Carey after a long night. Becoming best friends. Learning to put eyeliner on. Laughing so hard I’ve had to just sit down on the floor. Adopting this orange cat that just stayed under my blankets the first day I brought him home. When I would sometimes relapse into those nights of Breakfast at Tiffany’s he’d curl up right next to me and purr as loud as he could. He wanted me to know he was there. Life kept going and I’ve grown so much from that woman that came through those doors three years ago. I’ve been sad the last week. This chapter is ending. It’s hard to end something, isn’t it? It’s hard to move forward and grow sometimes, even though we know we need to. It’s necessary for a positive existence. I have loved living here. I’ve loved my life and all the things that are part of it these last few years. Even the unpleasant things that have happened in this house. Growth isn’t always beautiful. I’ve cried but I’ve laughed just as much, if not more.
Tomorrow morning, when it’s light outside, I’m going to snap a photo of the building. It seems strange, but I’ve never taken a picture of this place I’ve called home for the past few years. I want to look back later and say, “Remember that cute little spot with the rose bushes out front? I lived in with one of my best friends for three years? That was a really great time. I loved it there.”
I’m really going to miss this place.
KEYS TO THE IGNITION 