#182 – The Old House
It’s still a bit surreal to me. The old house meandered on the market for nearly 18 months, and then when it sold it was a celebration of mixed emotions: relief, resentment, maybe a little regret. I know my parents are thrilled to be rid of the house, especially considering the burden it had become over the last few months. But I’ll miss the place. I didn’t start thinking about this at the beginning, no. Only now, with it truly in the hands of other folks, does it really seem to hit me. I used to (grudgingly) water the lawn; I used to live in the far top left bedroom, then moved to the larger one consisting of the right top two windows, and then only to move back to the small one when D came home; I once slipped on the front step after I missed seeing it covered in ice on winter; I used to find the grossest-looking mushrooms growing on that tree to the far left; I used to collect rocks from the driveway and keep them in a bucket in our garage; I used to have my friends over a few nights a week, so that we could play games and watch stupid TV shows upstairs; I used to record sappy songs and draw cartoons in a corner of my bedroom; I used to wake my father up for his graveyard shift at the casinos; I used to built forts out of pillows and chairs, and sleep in them for as long as my mother would allow me to; I used to race up the stairs with Bitsy at night (we were scared–and probably still are–of monsters); I used to fight off a late-night army of ants with D; I used to sleep till 3 in the afternoon on Saturdays; I used to have a lot of memories there.
No, I still do. Goodbye, old house. I probably won’t visit, but I’ll always think of you.