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 "Your house is your larger body.

It grows in the sun and sleeps in the stillness of the night, and it is not dreamless.

Does not your house dream? and dreaming leave the city for grove or hill-top?

Your house shall not be an anchor but a mast.

It shall not be a glistening film that covers a wound,

but an eyelid that guards the eye."

Kahlil Gibran

Excerpt from On Houses from The Prophet

It was a hot August day when we arrived at our house in Illinois to help our son, Matt, and his family prepare for their move. The time had come. We needed to pack them up, move them out and sell this house. We hadn't lived here for about eight years.

I walked through the door on crutches after unexpectedly twisting and spraining my ankle a few days before and breaking a bone in my foot. I was in a large bulky boot and wouldn't be much help.

As I looked around the house, boxes,  packing paper, plastic bubble wrap, and tape were strewn all around the house; I felt such dread about what was ahead of us. Life was slowly being sucked out of the place as the last few baby toys were packaged up and boxed. I attempted to keep the baby entertained so the other adults could continue packing. My broken foot was a big nuisance, but most of the packing managed to get done anyway. We ordered carryout for dinner and sent my son's wife and two girls off on a plane the next day. Doug and I returned to Indiana, and Matt and his father-in-law drove a loaded truck to an apartment in New York City. They were about to begin a new adventure, life in the city, and a new full-time job. I felt excitement for them and hopes for their future.

A week later, Doug and I returned to the vacant house. It was quiet and dusty--there had been no time for a move-out clean. Without furniture and the children's happy laughter, it was an empty shell. The rooms echoed when we spoke to each other as we glumly looked at all the things left for us to deal with. Most of it was ours, items we had left when we moved to Indiana, thinking we would return and take care of things. But we never did. Items from Doug's physical therapy practice that he had closed down in 2012, paperwork in boxes from years of tax returns, and patient records lined the walls of the small office in the basement. Boxes. There were boxes everywhere. The entire office was full. Completely. I looked around with dread. How were we going to go through all that? We also had the workroom full of tools and the attic full of whatever. It all seemed like a burden. It was.

We took things slowly, one space at a time, and began to clean and sort. Boxes were opened and out of them flowed a steady stream of memories. We found our children's artwork, pictures we had lovingly hung on walls of our previous homes that had never found a space to be hung here. There were boxes we had never unpacked since our move here in 1995! We found trophies and photos, baseball shoes and bats, tents, dishes, Halloween costumes, books and more books, t-shirts, and collectibles. All the thoughts and emotions of reliving long-ago memories hit me hard. I couldn't believe how emotional I felt. Tears were just below the surface.

Every time I walked up the stairs to the second floor, I could remember moments on those stairs. At the very top of the staircase, the last step would make a creating sound. That sound reminded me of the kids coming home late at night, trying to sneak into the house without me noticing the time. I always opened my eyes and looked at the clock when I heard the "squeak."

I was reminded of Michelle's wedding day as she descended the stairs in her beautiful wedding gown, ready to greet the photographer on her special day. A wonderful memory. I also recalled young Mike setting up his hot wheels tracks on the stairs and shooting cars down them so they would crash into a box strategically placed at the bottom. I sadly recalled the time Mike fell down the stairs one night and was carried off on a stretcher. All the memories were flowing--good and bad.

The white ceramic floors held memories for me too. When we first moved in, I was obsessed with keeping the floors spotless. One afternoon, Matt had some friends over to have a rock concert in the backyard, and I insisted the kids take off their shoes to come in to use the bathroom. I didn't want any grass on my clean kitchen floor. Matt was so upset with me! I remember him telling me, "It's just a floor, Mom!"

Then that same floor became sacred ground when our youngest granddaughter was born unexpectedly In that kitchen. Born in the kitchen, just as her great-grandmother and namesake had in 1926 when the kitchen was the warmest place to be. As I cleaned the floor for the last time and polished it to a beautiful shine, I released my need to have it perfect and said a prayer of gratitude for my granddaughter's life and for the new owners to be able to hire a cleaning lady to take care of that beautiful floor. 

After several weeks of trips to Illinois, we finally removed all of our stuff from the house. (Yes, the attic and garage too!) The house has fresh paint and new carpeting. We've accepted an offer and closing is only a few days away. We're very grateful.

We've said our goodbyes to the physical space that was home for our family for so many years, yet the memories remain.

Kahlil Gibran says your house "shall not be an anchor but a mast." That mast is leading us to the next place that home will be. For us, it's Indiana for now. For Matt and his family, it's NYC. I'm relieved but holding onto the memories, good and bad, and the love that grew in that house. The walls were what contained our lives for a time. It was a symbol for me of HOME.