There were a few daffodils bravely blooming their bright yellow selves among the weedy patch of ground. The trees had grown larger in the more than five years since I’d moved. I lived in that house for nearly thirty one years. I walked through the empty house. It didn’t seem familiar to me anymore. It belonged to someone else. Some nameless person. So many memories there.
When I moved in to the house, earth tones were “in”. I loved the dark cabinets and multicolored shag carpets. My kitchen was even carpeted with browns, yellows and golds. My youngest was a preschooler, my oldest, a ten year old grade school student.
We moved here because we thought we needed more space. Really, we moved because I was so sad in our old house. I didn’t realize moving away from sadness doesn’t help. You have to face the loss and sadness. Not move away from it. That took several years and major deaths in my life to truly face the loss of my stillborn baby girl named Carrie.
So, I said goodbye to that house on 68th Street. Though I most likely will not enter that home again, I have wonderful memories there—and I’ll remember the tragic ones too. That’s the thing about memories—there are good and bad ones. Happy. Sad. There’s deep sorrow and glorious joy. And they’re there—those memories. And I am grateful for all of them.
