There is no ignoring the sadness any more. No pretending it's not going to happen. The home that was mine for thirteen years is about to find a new owner. Freshly repainted, staged to show, priced to sell, it's got multiple offers, and today is the big day. I get to meet all the prospective buyers and decide.
Last night, I paid one last visit, and remembered the house while I lived there with my daughters, just the three of us. A girls' abode filled with art making, music, dancing, cooking, friends, our two dogs . . . The only house that I have ever lived in and could really call mine. The house the children remember fondly and never completely left. A messy place while we were there, and that was part of its charm. Eight years we lived in the house, the girls and I.
After we moved out to a new home, with my new husband, the old house remained in my name. Tenants came and went, and treated it with various degrees of respect. It gave me comfort to know that it was there, a tangible connection to earlier, happy times with the children. Of course, hidden in that attachment, lied a lot of suffering. This morning, it's hitting me big, the wish for what can no longer be had, and the sorrow about the implacability of time passed.
Impermanence. And nothing to be called mine.