I’ve lived in my present home for 14 years, longer than any other abode in my life, even growing up with my parents. They’ve been in the same home for 46 years now, but when I was growing up there was still a lot of moving going on.
Been thinking about this a lot, as I have also been very lucky, for the last five years, to have a home in Colorado.
But tomorrow I’m headed out to pack up and drive the car back. The house has sold.
It’s a lovely home in a beautiful setting.
Leaving any home feels “funny” I think. There’s an intimacy being “in” a place for a good while, knowing which floor board squeaks, which toilet handle you have to jiggle, where to best hide the Christmas gifts. Which part of the refrigerator keeps things coldest. Who has which place at the table.
And once you are gone…well, you’re gone. That intimacy with a place, and the hopes and dreams associated with that place, go away too. For good. The you who lived in that place is different from the you you will be in a different place.
The me who purchased the home on Cristina’s Way was excited and optimistic. We’d been looking for years, thinking and planning for years more, and this house was, finally, so right, that I made an offer sight unseen and jumped on a plane at six the following morning.
The idea was that we would spend summers and holidays in Telluride. Quality family time. The girls would bring their friends and later, if we were lucky, grandchildren would get to hike and go sledding with us and roast marshmallows on the one legal wood-burning fireplace on our side of the valley.
But we had just one family holiday there—Thanksgiving, 2009—before our marriage fell apart.
Or, more likely, our marriage had already fallen apart.
I just hadn’t yet heard the crash.