It’s time to say goodbye, dear friend. It’s been a wild ride. Moving in here wasn’t easy. Not just because my adorable crazy, friends wouldn’t heed my careful warnings about moving the furniture, and our first moments together involved a pile of wood that was once a bookcase.
I’ll never forget that week of The Great Move of 2013. It seemed that moving across a small parking lot should have been the easiest move of my life. That assumption didn’t account for the emotional weight of leaving behind more than just a house. I was moving out on my own for the first time in nearly a decade. I was freshly divorced, new to a high-stress job, and swallowed up in fear and self-pity. Carrying those boxes was like carrying all the weight of my world turned on its axis. I broke down crying in that tiny parking lot more than once, the old home looming at my back and your façade waiting patiently for me to climb to my feet again.
It’s so fitting that you, dear Townhome, should be a literal reverse reflection of the home I was leaving. My life was that way. All the same, and all backward.
I like to think you’ll miss me a bit, too, Townhome. You’ve been the most intimate witness to the chaos that has been Year 1 PD (Post-Divorce). Your walls saw the best and the worst of it. As I pack the boxes and begin to carry my belongings away, a year’s worth of memories overwhelm me.
The hours spent sun bathing on the patio, reading everything from young adult fiction to post-modern theology. The scoldings I gave Porch Dino when he tried to breach the threshold of the back door.
So many out-loud conversations with no one at all. Finally learning how to pray out loud.
All the dancing. All the dancing till I cried till I laughed, a heap in your floor. The Ben & Jerry’s fueled crying on the floor. Mine and others’. The comfort we all gave each other here.
The dinner parties and movie nights. The overnight guests. The love and laughter of so many beautiful people. The fellowship. The magic.
So many Marco’s pizza deliveries.
The spiritual awakenings under the stars and in the shower.
In so many ways, I finally grew up in this house. I learned to take care of myself physically and financially, but also emotionally. I learned what it means to be an adult. To be autonomous and independent.
I tried dating again. I quit dating again. I lived an entire year on my own, not bringing home a single boy to you. You haven’t known me long, Townhome, but that’s a first for me. And it was. So. Good.
I changed my future, Townhome. I found my solid footing and my purpose.
You were my proverbial security blanket, Townhome. You gave me the comfort of personal space, something like a clichéd cocoon while I sorted out, “What is life?”
I’m ready for a new adventure, Townhome. I’m so sad to leave you, but I am so excited for the next phase. A floorplan of walls that share nothing of the life I had before, but will be filled with the mementos of all that has happened and give space to create all that will come.
When the hired movers (because you taught me to learn from my mistakes, Townhome!) have carried all the wood and cardboard through the doors, we’ll have one last crazy dance, Townhome. I’ll laugh and cry on your cool, wooden floors. And then I’ll move along.
But don’t worry, Townhome. I’ll be sure to write. You taught me how.