Saying Goodbye

Yesterday a moving van pulled up in front of this house and loaded up a small fraction of my parents' possessions (the rest of which they have weeded through and thrown away over the past few weeks.) My parents climbed into my dad's car and drove away, looking over their shoulders for the last time at a house they had lived in for 26 and a half years.

It was the only home I knew growing up. The only move I ever made was in fourth grade, when we painted what had been my parents' room pink and I lugged my stuffed animals across the hall from the much smaller room my brother and I had shared for 7 years.

When I called this house yesterday, no one picked up, not an even an answering machine. I realized there probably wasn't even a phone left to ring through the empty rooms. So I hung up and deleted the number from my list of contacts.

I realized, though, that I'll never forget that number, just like I'll never forget the strange, overgrown second back patio with the stone fireplace in the corner on the edge of our property or the way we used to bounce helium balloons up the ceiling of our staircase or the various spots in the living room where we put our Christmas trees over the years. These things are pretty much burned into my memory.

What amazes me most is how extremely opposite my feelings are about this latest development in my parents' lives. Never before have I felt so amazingly excited and so profoundly sad about an individual event.

Most of all, however, I am in awe of my parents' strength, courage, and sense of adventure. So many people have shaken their heads in wonder when I have told them what my parents are doing: ditching most of their worldly possessions, shipping the rest across the country with no known destination, hopping in the car for a two-week road trip during which they'll visit me, see their old stomping grounds (Kansas City and Boulder, Colorado, to mention a few), all with the hopes of finding a new place to call home in the town where they met and fell in love. How many sixty-year-olds do you know who would do something like that?

So each time I find myself teary-eyed about the loss of my childhood home, I end up marveling at what exactly my parents have set out to do. There's no denying that the sadness won't just disappear any time soon, but I think my admiration for my mom and dad will last a lot longer.