Imprinted

A memory that vividly impacted me was the day we officially turned over the house I grew up in to a new family. I was opening at work so I woke up extra early to go over to my house of twelve plus years and say goodbye. As I drove over, my windows were down, the wind was blowing through my hair and the sun shined brightly in m watery eyes. Instead of thinking about my usual everyday thoughts (my agenda, to-do list, and free time), it was like I was watching a movie in my mind. Every memory, every moment, rushed through me. I was fighting the tears. As I pulled up, I smelled fresh cut grass, the house looked more vibrant than usual. I slowly paced up to the two brick steps, really taking in my home. I gently pushed open the big, wooden door that always smelled funky when the sun shined on it. Inside, I stopped, overwhelmed with the sight of my home, empty. No furniture, no family, nothing. I calmly walked through the house, spending time in every room. Remembering every moment. Each room got harder and harder to walk away from. When I finally dragged myself away from my hollow bedroom I walked the length of the main floor one last time, then pushed myself through the front door trying to keep my head from turning back. I stood in the freshly cut and watered lawn, next to the u-haul and stared at my home. For the last time as my home. The tears flooded my eyes and spilled warm and wet down my cheeks. Then I turned and walked away, cherishing every moment I ever got to spend in that house.