Socks in the Laundry Room

I'm moving today.  Not in the traditional, pick up fifty cardboard boxes, eat take-out for five meals in a row, and stuff your earthly possessions in your car sense, but I'm moving.

I'm saying goodbye to this house that has helped raise me.  I'm looking at the view of the mountains out of my window one last time.  Using those hooks all around my room for blazers, coats, and purses, just like always.  I already said goodbye to the backyard, and I'm going to have to say goodbye to the fireplace, playroom, bathroom, and my room today.

I know that this house is a building made of brick and stone and concrete and wood.  But it's also a home made of laughs and love and tears and food and memories.  In one moment, it is a combination of lifeless and full of life that leaves me feel dizzy.

It makes me happy a family is moving in.  It makes me happy a little kid will be sleeping in my room and growing up in it.  It makes me happy that for a while, this house will be known as the 'Clark' house, probably irritating the new owners who are still trying to wipe our laughter off the walls and replace it with their own.

I hope the kids slide down the banister in between when the movers walk in.  I hope they never put new stone on the fireplace, it looks good now, but if they do, I hope the kids get the joy of holding rock up until the end of time.  I hope they have a fun-filled Saturday spreading wood chips and having brown feet from the dye (side note, very grateful I didn't have to spread wood chips again this summer).  I hope the kids go deep into the raspberries to get all the shiny gems, and I hope they figure out they need to net the cherry tree to actually produce any cherries.  I hope that they are dumb enough to try to fit through the hideout window and relish in the moment when they realize they can. I hope that they enjoy the mini fridge stuffed with drinks.  I hope the pizza oven burns hot, once they figure out how to use it, and they enjoy the melting cheese and gooey crust of the best pizza they will have.  I hope they race up and down, up and down, up and down the stairs, and even when they're 19, they still lope up the stairs at the same rate, knowing exactly where to step.  I hope they have a rule on Christmas that they have to make their beds before they open presents and that they try not to peek over the balcony (even though we all have that sibling that actually does peek when they're not supposed to).  I hope they learn to wear socks in the laundry room, or risk freezing to the ground.  I hope they do the annual migration downstairs when they realize the upper level is as hot as hades.  I hope they even start to curse the previous family about the dumb parts of the house, like the air conditioner that doesn't work and the different locks on every door (that may have caused someone to swear in the recent past).

 I'm ok if our family takes the blame because it mean that we still have a connection to this little house.  It can be a secret between us of who really takes the blame for all of the dumb quirks.

This house of mine isn't going to be mine after today.  We already have two offers and are just waiting to finally leave.  But I am grateful for this place.  Last time we moved, it was eerily similar.  I was nine (I am now 19).  We sold our house lightning fast (a divine sign we need to move and a testament to my parents' decorating skills).

Thanks for everything, house.  Thanks to the people who have helped raise me.  Thanks for the memories and the laughs and the hard stuff.  This little post is hardly adequate, but thank you, from the bottom of this little girl's heart.

xo. Elise