Attachment Issues

It’s happening. My childhood house is being sold. It will no longer be my house. It will belong to a different family, one that isn’t mine which is just wrong if you ask my opinion. This is the house that watched me grow up. I learned how to ride my bike in the driveway. The tree out front has seen many birdhouses and I was personally in the car when mom accidently took out our mailbox by driving over it with intense force (and then continuing to drive over it while denying that she hit anything). In a few months I will have to say “the” mailbox instead of “our” mailbox and that makes me feel all weird and choked up on the inside in a way that I have only reserved for Nicolas Sparks movies and John Green novels. My peers have all had very different opinions about this. Of course I get the empathetic dealings of sympathy where people hold my hand and make frowny faces at me, telling how they think that is so sad for me. Then I get the people who shrug their shoulders and sort of just shrug. “It makes perfect sense sine both you and your brother are official out,” they say. “It’s just a house.” But here is the big thing. It’s not just a house and it never will be. This house is where I learned how to cook and where I would dance in the kitchen by myself if no one was looking. This house has seen my laugh throughout my elementary school years, cry throughout my middle school years and be super angsty and stubborn throughout my high school years. It was always there when I got back from college and I knew that if I left anything behind, it was alright because it was at home. This house saw boyfriends, girlfriends, slumber parties, movie marathons, family fights, family game board nights that ended or turned into family fights and me naked on multiple occasions when I forgot to grab a towel before my shower. It watched thousands of times as I walked my dog around the corner, and played fetch with her in the front lawn, tried to stop her from chasing the squirrels up the huge tree and then this is the house that also saw her take her last breath and was there to protect her when I couldn’t be there. This house saw me start to experiment with makeup when I was 13, figure out that black eye shadow was not for me when I was 14, figure out that green eye shadow was also not for me when I was 15, watched me Google “make up tutorials” when I was 16 and then watched me get ready for my senior prom all by myself when I was 17 (I also want to just throw it out there that I got ready for the prom in less than 15 minutes, and if this house could talk it would say “Yeah she did!” in a way that a sassy aunt might).

This house watched my brother pace in the living room when he was thinking, practice the trumpet and eventually the French horn, scream in both happiness and pain over every an all sport and always act silly and ridiculous to make me feel better on my worst days. This house watch my parents  raise their children, cooing over cute hugs one moment and then splitting up fights another. It watched as they made each other cry with laughter, hold each other through the hard times and somehow, watched as every single night my mom fell asleep right next to dad’s impossibly loud snores that I could hear from the other side of the house. This is the house that has dents and scrapes on the walls, misaligned floor boards and a slightly leaky ceiling. There is a patch of rectangular shaped grass that won’t really grow again in the front lawn after too many years of the weight of a temporary basketball hoop. This house watched Dad’s golf equipment grow every year despite everyone’s protest and then watch as he taught my brother in order to disperse the clubs out a little. It also watched as my brother accidently bust a hole in the garage door with a misaimed golf ball. It watched hours of my clarinet practice, more hours of mind numbing TV and  filled with smoke a few times due to the crazy fast heating stove that even a decade later everyone seemed to forget was a legit problem. Hundreds of birthday cakes, hundreds of family dance parties, hundreds of early morning coffee talks and thousands of inappropriate jokes that were never to leave it’s walls. It saw my brother pull out of the driveway by himself for the first time and then it saw me. It noticed my brother’s beard growing it, it noticed Dad’s hair getting greyer and it politely turned away as mom offered me money to pull out all of her white hairs. It smells like home. It sounds like home. It feels like home more than any other place I have ever lived. And that’s because it is home. So, yes, I am sad to see it go. Saying goodbye to a part of your family is never easy.

 

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