As much as it pains me to say it, it looks like this is goodbye.
The movers are scheduled for this afternoon to come and remove any trace of us being here...something tells me you won't forget us though.
5 years ago, our hearts pounded and our hands shook as we signed that line, making the biggest purchase we'd ever made. It was scary, but you've proven yourself worth every penny.
Basically it was love at first sight for you and I, wasn't it? You winked at me when you realized I was drive-by stalking you, driving around that block over and over again. You knew you had me hooked. It's no accident we found each other, you and me. It was no coincidence that I was driving by (yet again) as the realtor stuck that sign in the yard, announcing your availability for purchase. My heart literally stopped as I raced home to tell Jarrod.
Our first showing with you was exactly the way I'd anticipated it. You puffed up your chest, tucked in your shirt tails and strutted your stuff for us. I sensed a tinge of embarrassment from you over your current owner's choice of wall colors, but I fixed you up, didn't I ;)
The rest between us is history...we've loved on you like that adopted child that felt like it had always been part of the family. We updated your vinyl peel-and-stick tiles, wallpapered you, freshened up your paint, whitified your trim (ok, so we hired that out, but still), we updated your kitchen quarters.
We laughed in you.
Cried in you.
Fought in you.
Loved in you.
Had holidays in you.
Hosted parties in you.
Made a crazy amount of memories in you.
So, House, I hope you aren't offended by my saying this, but those statements all seem to loose their punch in the preposition. Because the fact is, we made the memories. You and I just happened to be in the same place. We still would've had those birthday parties, those holidays, those movie nights. We have loved our time together, it couldn't have been better....
Loved, but there is a bottom line to this letter....and here's where it gets a bit Dear John-ish...
I've been a little sappy over you these past weeks, but here's the deal:
you are a beautiful, strong, shelter-ific being, but you really are just a house.
A beautiful concoction of wood and stucco, yes, but still just a house all the same. A house isn't a home unless it's occupied and well, we're moving on.
I've realized these past weeks that my home isn't you.
It's Noah's big fat dimples.
Jack's smirking grin.
Sophie's neck hugs.
Jarrod's love notes on the mirror.
Home takes on a whole new meaning when you're moving.
It changes, ebbs and flows; home.
You know this letter is more for me than you. And you know I'll be missing your oldness, your shiny hardwood floors and your never ending character, especially when I've settled into my brand new townhouse with it's shared wall, plush white carpets, and fake oak cabinets. But I've passed you on.
And change is good.
Change is healthy.
Change is growing...for both of us. You and I.
So this is farewell.
Goodbye and Good Luck, 204.
love and blessings,