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Monday, September 17, 2007
moved out, moved on
Whatever else has been true about the house where my family has lived for the past dozen years, one thing has been certain: It has always looked lived-in. Sometimes, in fact, 'lived-in' would have been far too charitable a term for the chaos that filled every room. This past weekend, the house has achieved a state, for the first time since I've had anything to do with it, wherein it does not look lived-in in the slightest, for the simple reason that it no longer is lived-in. Our belongings have been moved out (although I keep several boxes on hand to catch the last few things that are left lying around: the hair scrunchie on the top shelf of the closet; the crayons that fell into the gap where the hardwood doesn't quite meet the sliding-glass door and we never got around to putting in new trim; the answering machine; the spoon rest; the clock). Even the outdoors is as pristine as any non-landscaped area overseen by a family of people with the world's blackest thumbs can be in September in California. (That is to say... not very pristine. But it's devoid of anything we put there, anyway.)
And yesterday I started the job of going through all the rooms, removing every trace of our lives from the shell of the house that holds so many of our memories. By the end of the week there will be no smudges on the cabinet doors, no ring in the bathtub, no shed-skin-cell dust on the built-in shelves. Our germs will be gone from the doorknobs, and the house won't smell like us anymore. I've already washed away the wildly inaccurate marks made by my children over the years as they "measured" themselves against a doorjamb: Here is LT on his tiptoes. Here is C sitting down. Here is LT squatting. Here is C standing on a chair.
That house, where I've lived my entire adult life, is the only home my children have ever known. In fact, it is the only earthly home one of my children will ever have known, if she could even be said to have known it at all, before leaving it for one filled with glory, where there has never even once been, I presume, a toppling pile of laundry waiting to be folded and put away. All three of them were conceived there; all three came home from the hospital to one of the rooms I'm cleaning this week. The future tenants/owners will probably never stop to think of all the quiet candlelit trysts that have been kept in front of their fireplace, or of all the times we've sat in their bathroom, filled with shower steam, cuddling a croupy child at 3 AM. Nor will they have any way of knowing that my newborn son once lay in his crib in the apartment over their garage and projectile-pooped across his little bedroom until (I swear this is true) he hit the opposite wall four feet away. They won't know about the morning we came home from the hospital without our daughter: how the house filled with people who loved us while we began the task of learning to live without her, how I went to my son's room and lifted him still sleeping from his crib, so that I could comfort myself with his warm, breathing neediness while our family sat in a circle of grief in the living room at dawn.
I keep waiting to feel sad about moving out and moving on -- or even to have more than an occasional sweet-painful twinge of nostalgia. I feel like I'm skirting the edge of a well of sadness. In the space of a week, "home" will become another "place I used to live". There have been a few of those in my life, but it's been so long since I've added one to the list that apparently I don't remember how to feel.
Comments
The first thing I thought of, reading this, was Anne's House of Dreams. I hope the next place will be your Ingleside. (And also, to remind you of what Anne said in (I think) RoI, about being able to see her little daughter Joyce as she grew up, knowing she'd recognize her when they met again someday.)
Posted by: dichroic at September 17, 2007 11:36 PM
I don't really know what to say (apart from a passing comment that I rarely find myself feeling exactly the way I've always thought I "should"/would feel, on any given momentous occasion). But I do know that you have people wishing you the best as you take this next step. I hope the coming months will bring your family something wonderful. :)
Posted by: Michael at September 18, 2007 05:32 AM
I also thought of AHoD (and I also sometimes have trouble feeling like I think I should feel in emotionally-wraught situations). I hope your next home finds you soon and becomes the place of even more wonderful memories.
Posted by: Kat with a K at September 18, 2007 05:44 AM
This is a wonderful tribute to your home. Like the others, I hope your next home is just as wonderful to you as this place has been and you get to make as many beautiful memories there.
Posted by: mary at September 18, 2007 06:12 PM
Rachel, my heart resonates with yours! I get so attached to homes; even ones I'm only in for a short time. They KNOCKED DOWN the one A and I lived in when we were first married; How am I supposed to show my kids that memory?? I know God will meet you as this page turns.
love, Valerie
Posted by: Valerie at September 19, 2007 12:59 AM
Oh, Rachel. I am in tears. That moved me so much.
Posted by: Carol at September 19, 2007 01:55 PM
I'm not sure how I caught this three days too late, but oh, my friend, I am just sitting here crying and crying. Both this post and your latest were just too much.
I know (and I hate) that I have been practically non-existent in your life but there has not been a single day that you've not been in my thoughts and in my prayers. And now I shall pray all the harder. I am *so sorry* this is so (completely understandably) difficult for you. Please cling to the promise that He *will* turn your mourning into dancing; your tears into joy. I know you can't see it now but I have no doubt there is something altogether glorious just around the bend. I love you.
Posted by: Susan at September 20, 2007 05:36 PM
This was beautiful. My gosh. ((HUGS))
Posted by: jennifer at September 24, 2007 09:53 PM
