My life is in a state of turmoil right now.
A state of self-inflicted, it-will-end-up-okay, let-me-constantly-second-guess-myself, turmoil.
The house I am living in, MY HOUSE, will be somebody else’s house in nineteen days.
I have been so excited to buy my new house that I haven’t taken a second to look back at my “old” house.
So listen, 121 Porter Way.
You were my very first adult accomplishment. I bought you when I was 25. I thought I was amazing. And I WAS.
I got engaged when I owned you.
I got married when I owned you.
I brought BOTH of my babies home to you.
And because of that, you are a part of me. You, an inanimate 1,300 square foot object.
Life has a way of reminding us exactly who we are and what we have to show for it. For me, that’s a tiny plot of land and a little house in West Virginia.
Don’t ever discount the little things because someone else has it better, or bigger, or fancier.
This little house has housed so much love, and will continue to do so.
A family will move in here in nineteen days and will fill it with love, albeit a different kind of love. Probably saner, thank God.
Four walls. Two people. One love. Two babies. Countless memories.
While you didn’t do all that for me, you housed it.
Eight years later, I can look back and say that you surpassed my wildest expectations.
I surpassed my wildest expectations. My boys did too.
And you were always the place we came home to.
HOME may never have an address. But if it did, it would be a palindrome. With a 0.29 acre lot. With a cement driveway, and an apple tree.
Thank you for being my twenties. My past. My home. My start.
Thank you for being my beginning.