From 5 years old, I have lived in the same house on the corner. It had evolved over the years, as the living creature that is a home will often do, but it remains stoic to me - a place I can always return to. After 30 years my parents have finally decided to leave the Northwest for good, house included. Our recent trip was primarily centered around packing and cleaning.
On our final morning I woke up bright and early while the house was still quiet. It didn't really hit me until that moment. This was the last time I would look at Ashworth Avenue from the inside of this house. These halls, windows, patio, etc. would never again be part of my family. My children will happily eat ice cream on a porch, but it won't be this same brick one where I stood and took a picture on my first day of school. I don't know if I would describe the feeling as sad, so much as strange.
I'm happy for my parents, overjoyed really, and I know that we can all be at home in Wisconsin, too. However, some small part of me, a part I must have missed while weaning myself off the sentimentality associated with physical objects, longs for things like my childhood home to never change.
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