This is going to be sappy so bear with me. I’m going to go places I have never gone with you and I hope you can understand why after you read this.
I never liked you. That’s right. I wanted a house with a large front porch that I could sit on and read, maybe have my morning coffee. Instead I got a front porch stoop wide enough to sit and watch my kids play with chalk on the sidewalk and driveway. A stoop large enough to sit on and watch my kids riding their bikes. A stoop wide enough to welcome friends and neighbors into our home and give out goodbye hugs.
I never liked your kitchen. The colors seemed too dark, the space not quite right. Yet, somehow, that kitchen was the bright spot for us. That space saw so many family holiday dinners, birthday celebrations, and tears. Tears over loss and tears of joy. We made my grandma’s rolls in your kitchen to carry on her tradition. So many conversations that if those walls could talk, they would write pages.
The back yard was never that great. I wanted more space, but what you gave was a box garden planted with neighbors. A willow tree for shade, a pergola for late night talks under lights. It was not a half acre but you did your best. It was enough for kids to run in sprinklers and kick soccer balls. To toss balls over fences and climb to get them.
The rooms. No first floor master. But a direct line for sleepy feet to find their way to our bed at night. A passageway between rooms to say goodnight and good morning. A bathroom shared with a crazy cat who likes to lounge in sinks. A guest room that welcomed friends and family for holidays, birthdays or just because.
You were noisy. I always heard the kids laughing and talking, dishes clanging, television blaring. Running up and down the steps, dogs barking, kids playing. Maybe that wasn’t entirely your fault but you did your best.
I guess what I’m trying to write, dear house, is that you became a home to us. I’ll miss that front porch stoop where I saw both of my babies ride their bikes for the first time without training wheels. I’ll miss the kitchen talks I had with my kids. I’ll miss the light in the middle of the day and how it brightened the entire downstairs. I’ll miss my morning coffee and talks with Jesus in my living room space. I’ll miss the magnolia tree in the back yard and the shade of the willow. I’ll miss planting herbs in the box garden. I’ll miss those little feet running straight to my room and turning on the lights in the bathroom between the kids’ rooms to wake them up. I’ll miss the noises and how sound carries up the steps and I always had to tell Brian to turn the tv down.
I’ll miss you. You weren’t the best house but you were the best house for us. Over the past nine years, you’ve seen us all grow and change. It’s time to move on but I know you’ll be the best house for someone else now.
Thanks for the memories.