To new beginnings
Writer’s note: I wrote this just after moving into our new house in March.
This morning we moved out of our house. It was supposed to be our starter home — we planned to stay five or so years, then move onto something a little bigger and better suited for a family. Instead, we brought two babies home to our little house and ended up staying there for almost 12 years. Many tears were shed (none by my husband, I’m sure he’d want me to point out) when we finally made the decision to move into a new house. Thankfully, it’s still in Homewood, but it’s new and unfamiliar, and as a person who thrives on routines and familiarity (not to mention knowing where my stuff is), it’s not the easiest transition for me.
In the days leading up to the actual move, I was mostly concerned about the kids — especially our sensitive oldest, Kate. She’d already cried many times over moving away from our dear next-door neighbors, but on the morning of moving day, she woke up grinning ear to ear. “I can’t believe it’s actually happening today!” she said. Our youngest, Sela, is usually laid back and unbothered by much, but she was unusually perceptive. “I’m a little excited and a little sad,” she said. I told her I felt the same way and that it was OK to feel pulled in two directions.
When I picked them up from school and we drove past our old house — the movers had already moved up the road to our new house — our car was quiet. It was a strange feeling to bypass our usual driveway and keep on driving. I fought back my own tears, but Kate let hers fall. Sometimes it’s good to be a kid.
That night, with the girls away with their grandparents, Matt and I went back to the old house to pick up a few last things. A floor lamp. A box. A plant stand. I swept one last time, the broom finding still more bits of glitter in the girls’ bedrooms. Just when we thought we were finished, I remembered I hadn’t cleaned out our silverware drawer, and all our utensils were still there. We laughed a little and grabbed it all. Just to be sure, we pulled everything open in the kitchen to make sure it was all empty. That’s when I realized I’d left my computer bag in the bottom cabinet. A little funny, but not really.
We turned all the lights off for the last time. It’s strange how an empty, dark house looks so much smaller than a bright one filled with furniture. How could this small place have contained all our laughter, joys, tears and smiles for so many years? It reminded me that our family was just one in a line of families that have called 334 Kenilworth home over the years. Folks slowed down in front of our house a few times, gazing just long enough to let me know they had memories there. They usually stopped and chatted, telling us about cherished moments that had occurred in the house. One former resident sent us photos of the house from decades past when other small children played in the front yard. One house, many families, lots of memories and still more to come.
Now we move on to another home that we will fill with laughter and cookie crumbs, fingerprints and knock-knock jokes. It’s still unfamiliar right now — sort of like we’re guests in someone else’s house, still searching for our clothes and plates and the sugar bowl. Hopefully by the time you read this, we will have located everything and settled in. Life will go on as usual, just in a different location. This house will stretch its arms and hold us close, allowing us to continue growing and learning and loving. Even still, it may be a little while before we can drive back down Kenilworth and feel OK. New beginnings are exciting and sad, as Sela wisely said, and it’s OK to feel a little bit of both.
Contact Lauren at Lauren@LaurenKDenton.com, LaurenKDenton.com or on Instagram @LaurenKDentonBooks or Facebook. Her novel, “The Hideaway,” is available wherever books are sold.