Ode to a home
Each brush stroke covering a memory of life lived with children growing up.
A poem written on a bedroom wall as a reminder to a fourteen year old that life would be better.
Thirty six small nails in the walls holding up treasures.
Blue watercolour paint still visible from when your stupid dad said you could add some easy to wash off watercolours to decorate your room, so you coloured your whole room in that blue.
All memories that are loosing any physical trace of ever having existed. Gone. And I feel heavy, like something is dying.
Though this house has sometimes frustrated me, I love how we have lived here. It has been such a wonderful place these years.
I, we worked hard to be in the same house for a long time. So the kids could put down roots, and know a steady, permanent place in their lives. To offer them a sure home.
And that's been great.
But it makes this time of change bittersweet, and it feels like in some way I'm erasing memories.
And so it goes.
Tomorrow I tackle the hallway.