A couple of weeks ago we made a last-minute weekend trip home to my in-laws home in South Carolina. They’ve recently decided to chase a dream of theirs and move to the beach, leaving behind this house they raised their kids in for the past twenty something years. My husband, who is not really the sentimental sort, wanted to go see them and “say goodbye to the house.”
A house lived in this long holds a lot of life. It is the bones of the family, in a way, holding, bearing weight, giving structure. Most of my husband’s memories and biggest moments happened in these walls. The Christmas mornings spent sitting with his brother + sister at the top of the stairs waiting for mom and dad to say they could come down. The timeouts in their bedrooms. His first love. His first broken heart. All the big moments, all the ordinary + mundane moments, too, that make up a life. I remember vividly my first visit to his home, this, his world. I remember playing guitar on the deck of the pool, laying down on his arm, feeling him counting on his fingers behind my head, counting the months until he would propose. I remember coming to surprise his parents, driving the 2 hours from North Carolina where we live to tell them about their first grand baby growing in my womb. It’s a special thing to bring your children home to the house you were raised in, seeing them toddling on the floors so familiar to your own shaping.
It was good that we were able to make it back for a visit one last time, make some more sweet memories together, see the youngest grand baby bond with her Baba for the first time. So long, yellow house!