Goodbye to the first house I ever loved

The moving truck was packed and the only thing that remained was a lonely plant that would have to sit next to me in the passenger seat on the sixteen-hour drive across Georgia, Alabama, Mississippi, Louisiana, and into Texas.  My husband had stuffed everything we owned in that truck, Tetris-style. It was time to walk away.

I had the key in my hand, and I sent my husband outside so I could take a last look around.

This house was the second house I had ever purchased, but the first house I ever loved. I chose the lot.  Picked the paint colors. Decided on the countertop. Debated cabinet stains. And watched it develop from the very first board.

I remember when the builder broke ground on this house, and took pictures when the frame went up. It is surely one of the most exciting things a young couple can do, building a house. We installed the blinds ourselves on the second night, after sleeping in an open-wide house, which felt very eerie.  We listened to the country music station as we tacked up each set of new-white blinds, and we didn't argue, for once.

This was the house I built with my first husband.

If this house could talk, it would tell you of the hope I had when we moved in.

This, I had thought. This will help us feel grounded. This is our baby, together.  Things will get better now.

Except that it didn't.

This walls would tell you of chilly silences and walking on eggshells. The house would tell you of violent outbursts and terrible words.  It would tell you about the nights I spent curled up in a ball when he walked out the door. 

My house would tell you that I fought for it, bartering my marketing skills with a sympathetic lawyer who filed my divorce papers for free. It would tell you that I clicked the button with shaking hands to post an ad on Roommates.com to share my house with a stranger so I didn't have to sell it. I wasn't ready for more changes in my life, just then.

It could tell you about the day I threw away everything in the house that reminded me of him - gifts, clothing, postcards, even the wedding photo negatives - as my new roommate held open the trash bags for me.  And of the furniture I picked out on my own for the first time in my life.  And of triumphantly learning how to mow the lawn from a friend's husband.  It would tell you that I learned to stand on my own two feet. 

All by myself.  

Then it might tell you the story of how I fell in love again, and my first date with Will at this house, with pizza and Along Came Polly on the DVD player.  And then the day that Will arrived in his own moving truck from Phoenix, along with the cat he had adopted while he was single as a favor to a friend, and was giving up for me; unfortunately, my allergies would not allow any pets in this - or any - house. And although Will and I were engaged in Savannah, a few hours away, the house would have rejoiced in our homecoming, remembering the smiles and a diamond winking from my left hand.

And there I was, nearly five years since I moved into this house. 

I looked around my house. My home.  The tears started falling, and I cried for this old chapter to close and for our new life to begin in Texas.  I wasn't sure I wanted to go, but I wanted to be with Will, and I was ready to give up my friends, my house, and my life for him. I cried with fear.  I cried with worry.  I cried with regret. And with hope, once again.

The house was more than a house... it was a receptacle for my dreams.  Even in the times that I was unhappy, or lonely, or uncertain, the house was my rock.  That's why I fought so hard to keep it - I needed this house, and the house needed me (I like to think).  

Today, my house has sat patiently waiting for five more years, housing a tenant since we left the suburbs of Atlanta.  It's time to sell it, now that it is empty again and the market has improved. My beautiful house is going to be sold, and quickly, I hope.  It's a little sad, letting go.  And also, a great relief. 

Soon, this chapter will be closed forever.  I'm ready for it.

In the meantime, I want the house to know: I found hope again, old friend.  I found the love I had been looking for when I bought you.  I went on to have the child I always wanted.  And I moved on to a better life.  House, I am happier than I have ever been in my life. 

Goodbye, house.  Thank you for remembering.

Love,

Want to see more photos of the house?  They're all on this site (turn off the music in the upper right-hand corner, if you like).  

Laura O'Rourke featured a whole series about moving; you can find it here.