Home

It's so silly of me to get so emotional talking about my childhood home.  A home I "never felt connected to," as I always just assumed we'd move again.  We moved in 1st and 5th grade, so why not in 7th or 9th or some equally horrible age to move?  So it was where I lived, but not necessarily home.  And of course I went and moved to Virginia for college and Maryland for whatever happens next.  Here I am, 12 years after leaving the house that truly is my childhood home - regardless of my opinions on the matter.  The home where I suffered through middle school.  The home where I started to understand who I really am through high school.  The home I return to at Christmas.  And oh! Christmas in that home!

This home of mine officially went on the market yesterday, with fancy wide-angle photographs and everything.  My home looks immaculate - far tidier than it ever was at any point in its 20-year life - so professional.  A little cold for all the beauty of my mom's decorating and the house itself.  The photographs are beautiful, but so devoid of my family for who we are.  So many photos missing from the walls.  And where is the pile of coats on the back of the kitchen chairs?  And the mail on the counter?  Where are the shoes under the foyer bench?

I also realize looking through the photos that the house is so very PINK!  Living in the home for so long, I suppose I noticed the profusion of pastels in every room.  The floral carpets and drapes and upholstery.  But man, do those photographs truly emphasize the PINK of it all!  Yet it's very hard for me to imagine that house any other way. 

I'm sad to know the house is on the market.  Sad that I'll only visit once, maybe twice, ever again.  Angry that some other family will come in and ruin my mother's beautiful decorating, marring the walls with some garrish non-pastel paint or something.  Hopeful that maybe, just maybe, they new family will appreciate the handpainted nursery and will keep the secret garden room for another little girl to grow up in. 

It's silly to be so upset.  It is.  It's too much house for my parents, and they are moving onto a very exciting new adventure.  I suppose it's the realization of time marching forward.  Twenty years have passed.  All four of us have moved out, leaving my parents and one very small dog behind.  It's time for a prayer to St. Joseph that, if nothing else, the house sells quickly.  And if I can put in one extra request? That the new family has as happy a life as we did in their new home.