My childhood home has been sold. Way back in February, someone looked at it, liked it, made an offer, and that offer was accepted. We wanted to sell Ma's house because nursing homes are ridiculously expensive, and we wanted to pay them. Ma was always very good about paying her bills, and she would not have been happy to know that Pastures was not getting their money. Anyway, so this person made an offer and it was accepted. But, something about banks these days made it so that we needed to wait two months to close on the thing.
Fast forward to March. Mom died. Guess what? Since the house hadn't been closed on, it became the property of my four siblings and me. Wrench in the plans. We're very thankful that the woman who wanted to buy it was understanding, even to the point of having to wait to get all of our signatures on the sheet, get our signatures notarized, and then back to the bank. Fast forward some more to June. FINALLY the house was sold.
As of last Wednesday, the place I grew up is now off limits to the likes of me. It's kind of weird, really. I lived there for 24 years of my life. Most of my memories are from there.
And now, I can't even go there anymore. The tree my dad planted for me (we got them for Arbor Day in 3rd grade) now belongs to someone else. The old crappy shed that I worked on cleaning out now belongs to someone else. The grass I successfully grew on the north side of the lawn (my dad had tried multiple times to no avail) is no longer mine. The walls that have heard the echoes of so many laughs and so many, "I love yous," and so many conversations no longer are mine.
Now, someone else gets to enjoy the shade of my pine. Someone else can store their belongings in my shed. Someone else gets to mow my grass. Someone else gets to laugh, love, and share life within my walls. Their pine, shed, grass, life.
And even though I grieve the loss of yet another familiar thing, I have hope that this woman will enjoy the place and make new memories and bring joy to her home. HER home.