At some point, the place where you once shared so much laughter and tears and dreams and many many (too many) meals no longer feels like yours any more. It becomes caught in some interstitial space where the emptiness mingles with memory.
When I look at these photos, I still see pieces of our life clinging to every shadow in every corner. I see the couch where we spent all our time as a family, I see the overstuffed chair where I would stay up until the wee hours of the morning finishing a book, I see the place where I shaved off all of Sly’s hair, I see the window where Sabine and I watched our final sunset together–the same window where Max and I watched our first sunrise together. I see the garden filled with tomatoes and eggplants and cukes.
And now, all that remains of our life here, left in place of what once was are particles of dust floating in the light.
In retrospect, I will remember the happiest of times–the best of us–but I will never forget how much I hated that stupid bush in our front yard, the tiniest closets ever, the fridge whose door didn’t open all the way, the closet with half a door, the wooded area in the back that was a breeding ground for mosquitoes, and the overly nosy busy body neighbor across the street.
Good and bad, it was our home for two years, and I will always remember the house where we spent the first years of our marriage.
Goodbye, Old Home.