We own nothing in Tulare, Hanford, or anywhere in the Central Valley anymore. It’s simultaneously sad and exciting. It got me thinking about endings and the difference between them and beginnings.
Leaving something something behind, saying goodbye (even if it’s just “see you later”), and clearing out the place you called home for five and a half years can be sad, but nobody can take away the memories you made there.
Memories like your first night in the house, when you had a picnic dinner and camped in the huge bonus room upstairs. Memories like talking to your brother there just a month before he died, when you each voluntarily said I love you for maybe the first time ever. Memories like bringing both babies home from the hospital, and not having a clue whether you (or the babies) would survive.
You’ll never forget that spot where K projectile vomited multiple times in the master closet. That time when Q finally took her first steps. That first big home upgrade you made. That time your sister-in-law’s sister (an animator for The Angry Birds movie) and her husband (an equally talented animator) painted a mural in the nursery. It was your first home you bought together. You made that house your own, and turned wood, nails, glue, and all the other stuff that makes a house into a home. With your family. Those things don’t just go away – they’re a part of you. They’ll never go away.
How can you leave all that behind? How can you just go away and never come back?
The belief that good people are all around, and that you will find them, and make memories with them. And you’ll make new memories with your babies.