I can never go home again. I will no longer have a space in the driveway for my car, nor will I ever see my dad pushing a lawnmower around our yard again. The days of racing my brother up the stairs are over. There will be no more bonfires out back or late night pool dips.
Memories from that house are flooding in. Like the time we tried to cram our oversized Christmas tree through the front doors. Or when we piled on my parents’ bed to watch TV and got the 11pm sillies. There was stretching under the table after Sunday dinners and doing back handsprings on the flat part of the roof. And I will never forget being awakened every morning from from my mom’s voice on the intercom system, shouting, “Lindsey, get up! This is reeeeee-diculous.”
So, I am allowing myself to be sad tonight. Even though it is only a house, I’m sad that I didn’t get to say goodbye. I wish I could be there to help pack years and years of memories. Thank you to all of those back home that have spent hours helping my parents pack and move.
The memories from within my old house are so vivid. It’s as if they just occurred yesterday.