The house that I spent ages 8 to 18 in was the house that helped build me.
When my parents sold that house I was married, a parent and a homeowner already.
None of that mattered.
My old bedroom had long been taken over by one of my younger brothers, complete with little boy stains and smells.
None of that mattered.
If those walls could talk they would say that that house was the place I had some of my best and not so best times.
It was the house that I ever so defiantly laid down my house key declaring I was 18 and to cool for a curfew, oh how later on I wished I could of folded those words back into my mouth.
As my parents packed up that house and prepared to move on with their lives, I mourned.
I grieved for that house. Only later on realizing that I was grieving for my childhood again. As crazy and exhausting as it was, I still had the taste in my mouth and I was craving it. After the papers were signed and new owners boxes were unpacked I drove by that house often. My parents put a lot of work into that house. Work that other people wouldn't appreciate or even know was done for that matter. Blood, sweat and tears. And I wanted to make sure the new occupants were keeping it up to par.
My husband and I are deep into the bones of our present home. Much like we did with our very first house, we have scratched off all most all of the scabs (pink and blue pastels and flowering wall paper) and have begun the healing process (dark browns, reds and oh so scrumptious greens :). Room by room, board by board it is becoming the house that rebuilds me. If we have no surprises with my husbands job, this will be the house that we retire in. After almost 5 years in it, I know every squeak, every hum and every drafty window. What I don't know is how under my sofa in the basement I keep on finding multiple pairs of socks that surprisingly don't belong to anyone with the last name Johnson. Gotta love boys and basements.
I am happy to think that one day my children will look back on this being the house that built them. Their bedrooms being the places they mapped out their dreams. The cul de sac holding more afternoon secrets than a teenagers diary. And the back porch being the place that rejuvenated our family. And if and when they lose sight of where they're going, they can come back and see where they've been. Hopefully remembering their best and not so best times in life. And maybe one day the walls will divulge the secrets to life's mysteries; including the mystery of the lost socks.