Reluctantly, I opened my eyes to greet the early morning sunlight flooding into the room. I lie still for a moment, assessing my surroundings; I notice that something feels different. Slowly raising myself into a seated position, I see my two cats still slumbering at the foot of the bed, but that is all that is recognizable. I gaze out the window and notice that the leaves on the trees have begun to turn yellow. I refocus my gaze back inside the room and back to my new reality; 47-years-old and back home with mom and dad, except this time I have the company of my 12-year-old daughter and our two cats. This may have been my house many years ago, but this is not the home I created these past 16 years.
The room is still and silent, as it is very early. Both Rebekah and my parents are asleep, so I quietly open the door and tiptoe down the small, narrow hallway to the kitchen. Giggling to myself, I think about all the times I had done this while sneaking out in the wee hours of the morning to meet my friends. The rising sun gives off just enough sunlight so I do not have to turn the kitchen light on. Reaching for the boldest K-Cup I can find, I pop it into the Keurig and lean against the counter with my arms folded, listening to the sounds of a fresh, hot cup of coffee being brewed. “So many memories in this house,” I think to myself. I look over toward the china cabinet and envision my high school friend and I standing in our Madonna-esk, synthetic lace dresses for homecoming. Then, my thoughts trail off to the kitchen of what was my home and I wonder if the new owners are awake making their coffee too. I turn back around to claim my cup from the machine and retreat to my room, leaving my thoughts and memories lingering behind. I slip back through the door that I left ajar, this time more concerned I do not stir the cats so I can revel in my morning cup of sunshine while it’s still hot. I situate myself in a seated position under the cozy covers with my Mickey Mouse coffee mug snuggled between my two hands and stare out the window at the yellowing leaves. “Seasons.” I whisper aloud, “For everything there is a season, and a time for every purpose under heaven:”.
It was just yesterday that I was sitting at my lawyer’s office, signing away the ownership of my home. Though it remains one of my most proud accomplishments, it was time to allow someone else to care for it. I had felt an emptiness in the pit of my stomach, an unsettling feeling that kept my mind slightly distracted; maybe it was because I was signing away what I believed to be a fixture of my independence and security. Like a blanket that makes you feel safe and secure, I wrapped myself within its walls as protection from my life and used it as a crutch to control my environment. I had purchased the charming 1920’s cottage nearly sixteen years ago before I had gotten married. After the divorce, it became too difficult to maintain; it just needed more TLC than I was able to provide. Despite all the cracks that covered its plaster walls like an intricately woven spider web and all its quirks that I had learned to live with, I loved the warmth of its hug each time I walked through its front door.
I procrastinated packing for weeks because I knew it wouldn’t be easy placing all the memories into boxes; it felt like I was stripping the house of its life… or was it mine? Each night, after dinner, I had packed the contents of a different room. The house, Rebekah and I would reminisce about all the events we shared together. She loved listening to the stories as the house and I recaptured the memories and retold them to her. “This old house has watched over us since before you were born.” I reminded her, trying to sound more upbeat than sentimental. “It welcomed you home from the hospital in your big frilly bonnet on a snowy March day and sent you off to kindergarten with your adorable pigtails and Minnie Mouse lunch box.” “It has watched every Christmas tree light up with hope and happiness and it has listened to us sing happy birthday to you each and every year.” As I had begun to talk about all our pets, my thoughts trailed off to a more solemn time. Like a reliable and dependable friend, the house had helped me glue the pieces of my life back together when my marriage ended. I had wished I could take the house with me, but I knew it was time to say farewell so we could both move forward into the future to experience new growth.
When the final box had been packed and shipped off to the storage unit and Rebekah off to her grandparents, it was just me, the cats, and the house. I stood in the center of the living room while the cats entwined their bodies around my ankles as if they knew I had needed their support at that moment. “Well kitties, this is it; time to make new memories somewhere else,” I said as I closed my eyes standing in the empty living room remembering Rebekah’s many birthday parties. The laughter and singing that once filled the room echoed in my ears, “Happy birthday to you, Happy Birthday dear Rebekah…” Slowly, I opened my eyes, took a deep breath, and walked toward the front door. Hesitantly, I placed my hand on the doorknob, then slowly turned back around to face the barren house, “Thank you.” I said softly, then turned and walked out its door, down the porch steps, and got into my car. I chose not to turn my eyes toward the house again. How many times could we say goodbye?
Driving back to my parents’ house with a car full of miscellaneous items and two distraught cats, I had begun to feel the effects of the two-high paced days. The lack of sleep had started to seep into every limb of my body, making everything seem as it was going in slow motion. For a moment, I had thoughts of pulling into my favorite Stewart’s Shop one last time for a cup of coffee, but the sentiment was too bittersweet and the cats were vocalizing their displeasure. I turned the radio on to tune them out and keep myself alert. The 30-minute drive was a blur, I must have allowed autopilot to take control of my body. All I remember is pulling into my parents’ driveway and unloading the menagerie of contents from my car. With every armload, I had imagined a clown car from a circus with the never-ending items pulled from every compartment. Bending down to extract the last piece of my past, I had pulled out what would inevitably become a part of my future. I stood in the driveway holding a rock from the foundation that my home had been built on; it felt durable and strong. Holding the rock in my arms, I carried it toward my parents’ house. The yellowing trees drew my attention upward. “Seasons.” I whispered with a smile, “To everything, there is a season.”
Live Well~
