A Bittersweet Goodbye

A big part of the reason I’ve been silent on the blog lately is how busy we’ve been. While I’m used to the typical insanity, we’ve had an additional, overwhelming task that we’ve been hacking away at. And now that it’s almost over, I don’t know whether I am more sad or relieved.

My step father has been living in our childhood home for the last three plus years since my mom’s death. But a combination of a difficult financial situation and a new relationship has caused him to sell the house. We’ve known for just over a year now, but since it was being sold as a short sale, it took forever with the bank. And since he told us about it just about eight months before our wedding last September, we’ve really only had since this winter to go through it. My family lived in that house for over 16 years- I was there for about a dozen or so of those. Long story short, it was a lot of stuff.

So, I, with the help of my incredible, amazing, words cannot describe his awesomeness and dedication husband, have been working away at digging through my childhood to determine what is sentimental enough to keep and what needs to find a new home. And while it is a bit therapeutic, it is also incredibly emotionally draining. Combine that with the fact that I was pretty much a pack-rat with a penchant for immensely odd collections as a child… I kinda can’t believe I’m still married at this point.

Thankfully I am, considering I really don’t think I could have gotten through this without Brian. It’s impossible to describe the feeling of going through all of my mom’s stuff, remembering, and realizing- then accepting- that I can’t keep it all. The feeling of finding the shoes she had on during the accident and bittersweet sadness of seeing her flowers popping up in the yard, knowing that this is the last year we will see them.

 
I say bittersweet because, although it may seem incredibly odd, I find comfort in the fact that we will be the last family to live in that house. The person who purchased it plans on tearing it down to build yet another one of the mini mansions that have taken over my old neighborhood. While that may seem to be a depressing thought, it makes me happy. In a sense, I like that we were the last family to live there- that, in the end, it was our house, our home.

I also say bittersweet because I have realized over the past few years that home is more about the people than the place. Cue the corniness, but I firmly feel that Brian is my home, and whether we are residing in a cardboard box or a million dollar mansion, I will always be home with him by my side. And I smile because I know that someday (hopefully soon) we will be able to find our own first home, a place that we can own, put our stamp on, and grow in. Hopefully it isn’t a cardboard box.

Yet at the same time, as these weeks have dwindled down into days, it has become harder and harder for me to ignore that a large chapter of my childhood is coming to a close. And now, mere hours from when I have to go and collect my final things and say goodbye, I can barely focus on much else.

But, like many other situations in my life, I’ll get through. I’ll be sad, I’ll cry, I’ll remember what was. I’ll remember the Christmas mornings and the late night backyard fires. The sleepovers and the early morning kitchen conversations with my mom.

Most importantly, though, I’ll move on.