End of an Era

I got the e-mail from Dad exactly a week ago. 

The one I've been anticipating for almost three years now, the one that made it final, irrevocable.

The end of an era.

Subject: Willimantic Home Sold! 
"We got call from Attorney at 12:30 PM our time that all paper work and deals had been signed. 
He will Express mail us the final documents and what was left of the money tomorrow morning. New owner has keys and will be taking care of whatever needs to be done to move in ASAP. 

Done and Done! Let it snow or rain, I don't have to worry about leaks, breaks, or bugs out there any more."

 It really wasn't a surprise. This has been a long process of adjustment.

First there was the family announcement. Then the For Sale sign went up. The neighbors and friends began to realize. There were open houses, walk-throughs, followed by near misses due to economic issues and lack of bank financing. The moving trucks came and left for Utah. I visited, more than once, and there was the ongoing removal of "just one more thing." The calendar cycled through months and then years. Dad flew out in October to deal with a host of major issues, including, securing a new agent. Things began to finally move, and this past December, my last set of "emergency keys" were removed from my key ring ... for good.

Throughout this there were prayers and the relearning of the concepts of patience and "in the Lord's time."

But now? It's really real.

And, as I've said to a few people,

I feel weirdly ... Weird about it.

But glad.

It was time.

I have more to say ... stuff that will include pulling out and reworking the draft of the post I wrote in the immediate aftermath/processing of when my parents first told me in July 2010 ... but for now, I will leave you with this story.

The photos above are from the main entrance of the house, the formal entrance - the one we as family we would use the least, but still considered the front. To enter this way, you would ring the doorbell and get the classic two-tone chime. The "screen" door would be opened, and then you would be invited in through the classic and very solid wooden door - bedecked with it's classic oval glass, dental and fancy molding, and very vintage mail slot.

Those people who say that buildings don't have souls are wrong. When a house has been loved as a home, it will love - and show - you in return.

On many of my solo visits since my family moved out for good, I have wandered the rooms, stairs, and floors photographing and reliving my experiences under this roof. I have stroked woodwork, caressed banisters, swept out cobwebs, and infused what happy karma I could into empty corners. I have breathed in the house's distinctive scents and expelled out my blessings, whispering throughout: "Thank you. Thank you for keeping us safe. Thank you for being patient with our rough-housing. You were a good house; you were good for us. Be good for the next family. Thank you isn't enough, but thank you for everything."

As I was trying to prop the front door --  open just a crack -- to take the photo on the right, the door would continually, slowly, steadily, open wider ...  as if to invite me to walk back over the threshold.

Some would blame gravity or some other physical force, but for years I sat in that room practicing my piano with my back to that door. For years I lived under that roof; I would go in and out that door to collect the mail or papers; for years, that door would welcome friends, family, guests, and then, just me ... back home ... and the door would not swing open like that.

I had to wistfully and tearfully whisper, "Thank you. I will come in for a minute, but then I have to leave. This time for good. But thank you."

The next time, the door stayed where I put it.

And then when I came in, closed the door, and threw the deadbolt, there was certain click of finality to it. The action may have been automatic, but the realization came a second later, and I had to pause and take a deep breath.

I had probably just literally and figuratively closed a door on a chapter of my life.

Until the house was sold, there was always the possibility of going back, but I think I knew then.

I had been having dreams recently too, subconscious message from beyond, that the end was coming. 

Dad's e-mail made it really real. That era is over. My parents can finally exhale, and we can whisper "thank you" out to the universe again and again.

Dwellings may come and go, but there really is no place  ... like a home.