All The Feels
In the middle of the chaos, there is a deep, wide pool of emotions simmering beneath the surface. There are twenty-five years of memories in this house, and until we'd made the decision to sell, they kind of enveloped us, like a soft mist, there, always, but not penetrable, or concrete, just a part of everything and every day. Now that every box has to be opened, sorted, and repacked, those memories are more tangible, demanding recognition, before being stowed away for another time.
Time is of the essence, but every baby box, every kindergarten drawing, every report card suddenly seems too important to simply sift through. I find myself slipping into the past while preparing for the future and all the feels are bubbling over an already too full well of emotions. Throw in a little PMS and it's a cocktail of sobby-sappy, and my cup runneth over.
I know that some things will find their way to the dumpster, and other things into boxes for the kids to decide what to do with, in their own time. There are boxes of photos (remember when we actually used to print them out?), but some are waterlogged, or mildewy due to the humid Cape summers and a haphazard storage system. They will have to go, but every single one must first be gone through with callouts to my husband about 'remember this', 'remember when', 'oh, my goodness, look at her/him, they were SO little', 'what happened to this/that/the other?', 'should we try to save this?' - inevitable memory outbursts that will slow down the process that doesn't have time to slow down.
There will be toys, blankets, clothing, and books, too that will need to be sorted through and separated into must-keep and must-toss piles. There will be multiple shifting between the two piles until my husband decides enough is enough and takes control of my emotional sorting process. I will have to let go of things I've held on to, for no other reason than this moment, perhaps, to serve as a non too subtle reminder that life is fleeting, and while 'things' may continue to exist, our own existence is so much more ephemeral and fragile. If anything this pandemic has taught us, driving home this point, is that. Life can't be taken for granted, because it is not guaranteed.
This is the reason we're doing what we are doing NOW, while we still have the strength, health, and energy to pursue, create and build another couple of decades of memories. The 'things' aren't the important stuff, it's the feelings, the emotions, the heartbeats of our lives that matter, and they'll always be a part of us, in our blood, our marrow, the fabric of our souls, and I know that, but it doesn't make this process any easier.
It's not just the 'things', though.
Yesterday, while working on the 'curb appeal', tending to my gardens, I couldn't help but wonder if the new owners will take the same joy in the things I did. The two huge peony bushes under the living room that bloom on my birthday every year, filling the whole house with their perfume. Or the twenty-year-old Maple my Mother gave me on my 30th birthday, only 6 inches tall at the time, a mere twig, that now drapes elegantly over the front yard in the Fall, a headdress of crimson-gold leaves, where the cardinals hide waiting for their turns at the feeder. Or the rows of irises and lilies that line the front rock wall, that bloom all summer long, lush and thick and colorful, little flower flags that multiply every year. Or the English ivy I took from my Mother's house and planted along the side of the house, that now creeps elegantly over the rock wall there, and along the fence where chipmunks store their winter nuts, safe in the dense foliage. Or the three lilac bushes my Father-in-Law and I transplanted from the dying bush against the house, that were only finger thin when they went into the ground, and now, years later boast thick, purple blooms signaling the beginning of Summer, filling the backyard with their heady scent during family gatherings.
There are so many other things that 'belong to us' that we never took for granted, but wonder if the owners will. Not that it will be our concern anymore, but you can't help but think maybe a letter to them, left with the keys, telling them about these things might change their mind about tearing them up? Or not. It shouldn't matter to me - - but it does.
These are the emotions that are being uprooted, along with everything else, as we prepare to relinquish all these things to a new family. These are the feels we will have to work through as we pack, throw away, sort, store away twenty-five years of our lives. There is a fragility and vulnerability that comes with selling a home that no one tells you about. Each move is different, each loss/gain unique to the individuals, but if the house that is being sold was once a home, there, invariably will be these painfully sweet moments that need to be experienced, cherished, and released. No way around it.
It is my sincere wish that whoever chooses our home will come to love it, and all the sweet little surprises it has to offer every season and that a piece of us will remain there, with the peony blooms, the fire-red maple leaves, and the stoic, stubborn ivy. I wish I could be there in the Fall when the turkey family I've fed for years come to the front yard looking for seeds, soft warble calls filling the dawn and dusk. Or when the murder of crows in the backyard that made a nest in the tall oak tree gather at dusk caw-caw for the peanuts they love so much. Or the bat family that glides silently above the hammocks as the sun sets, fine-tuned to the mosquito buzzing, keeping the backyard free of them. Will they love them as much as I did? Do? I hope so, oh, how I hope so.
It is my sincere wish that the next family to live in our home realizes that while she may not be perfect, she is magic, and if they wait, and watch, she will show them, one sunset at a time, what home truly feels like.
Meanwhile, I will be sitting here with all my feels, sobbing into a baby blanket if you need me.
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