Breaking Up Is Hard To Do

It has been a year of big losses for me: Marriage, financial security, dignity and dog. And here comes another one that for me is the worst of all: I have to break up with my house.

Worse that a marriage breaking up you say? She cares more about a house than a relationship?

Well . . . .  yes.

Because I am still in love with my house.

Not really my house exactly. After all, It is just a bunch of siding and nails and the source of huge electric bills.

I am in love with what my house holds. It keeps the memories of four wonderful children who were raised here. It keeps countless birthday parties and magical Christmas mornings and brand new kittens and a loyal dog.

It keeps the story of the mysterious end along with the wonderful beginning.

Every room tells me a hundred stories. In the garden are a thousand smiles. Three of my children are gone, but here I still see them every day.

Really I can hardly imagine life without my house.

But here I go because I have to.

It is hard to think there might be another home I might love someday, but I am hoping for that.

And hope is something I plan to always have.