We turned over our house keys to a new owner last week. It was chaotic and I moved so many boxes I burned more calories than Jillian Michaels the day after Thanksgiving. Most of the week was spent making a mental list of sentimental things:
Today is the last Wednesday afternoon walk we'll take with Polo.
This afternoon is the last time we'll swim in the pool.
Tonight is the last night we'll sit in this house and watch Halt and Catch Fire.
The house we moved from was the first big purchase JD and I made as adults. The walls hold stories of failure, triumph, pain, and unabashed joy. In so many ways, I grew up in it. Often I wrestled with the idea of aging (not in the age sense, but, rather, in the way one grows into adulthood), and–without a doubt–I became a woman somewhere in the small place we called home.
I'm beyond excited to move into our new home, but it's bittersweet because it feels like I'm leaving a chunk of my heart buried somewhere in our garden.
On that note, my hydrangea plant blossomed the last few days of our stay. The pink flowers are some of my favorite. I like to think of it as a parting gift from our house and the final goodbye of many well spent years.