It's a funny thing, to think that the days spent in your childhood home are quickly coming to an end. My nights in my bed, in the corner of my sister's and my 10 by 10 room, are numbered. The hallway that links me to our kitchen, where I've had endless homework sessions and dinners with my family; to my parents room, where I ran to when I had bad dreams; to my brother's room, where I can find him every morning and evening on his computer and poke my head in for a hello and a shared laugh; to my living room, where movie nights are held, Christmas mornings spent, playthings giving way to graduation photos. Our front room, with its stucco walls and glittering ceiling, is my nightly stakeout spot, with cookies beside me and a book in my curled lap.
I hope I haven't taken my time here for granted, but some small part of me fears that I have. For 21 years, I have taken the same 13 steps up to my front door, known the sound of my father coming home from work, jumped and stood on my tip toes and simply lifted my arms until I could reach the chandeliers. My mom is similar to Augustus Waters' mother in that each room contains some form of inspiration or another: Find Joy in the Journey. Home is Where the Heart Is. Live, Laugh, Love. It's a testament to who we are. I've learned the place like I have learned the grooves in my palm, and hope that when I close my eyes five years from now I'll remember the posters hung up, the layout of our pictures, the smell of chocolate chip cookies in the oven that only half worked.
Like an old home, we have settled. Our souls are twined with the space that has held our weight as we rode new bikes through the halls, battled cancer, ate pizza on Friday nights, hosted sleepovers and had some of our own on summer nights with one air conditioner in the house. We have creaked and cracked and learned how to stand proudly. I have grown to see the tweaks in my character, and realized that I am not me without them--that whoever is going to move in will be happy with who and what they find.
Each day is one closer to a new stretch of memories. There is a box being filled everywhere I turn, with the bits of us that are going to be hung up elsewhere. What has always been so full is quickly losing its distinct "us-ness." It's scary, until I remember that there is still so much excitement to be had ahead.
The waterway of roads that have become second nature to drive through will soon grow distant, but a new, natural route will take shape. I'll autopilot again. In the meantime, new faces will fill these rooms and will settle in and will come to make it theirs as we have made it ours.
