by Yee-Fan Sun | 1 2
continued from page 1
It's my pathetic way of remaining in denial over the fact that we're getting ready to bid good-bye to our home. I know it's time to move, but it's still hard; there's a little part of me that wishes I could fold my house up origami-style, so small that I could stuff it in my pocket and take it with me when it's time to go. I know it's dumb, but I can't help it: I want a way to move without leaving home.
The thing is, see, I'm excited about the fact that I'm moving -- setting up new digs, getting to know a new city, making new friends, finding myself on a new life's adventure with my favorite person in the world. I've moved enough times since graduating college that I know that I'm way more adaptable than I generally give myself credit; it'll take a little time, but I know I'll settle into this next place just fine. Besides, I've always known that where we are now was not a forever-after sort of place, that once the boy finished graduate school, it would be on to other pastures -- greener pastures, both literally and figuratively. This hot brown desert land's never really been for me, though I've come to appreciate its alien-planet brand of beauty.
But this house of mine, that's another story. I love it from wall to wall, ceiling to floor; I love it inside and outside and all-around, whole-heartedly and irrationally. (Is it really love otherwise?) Yeah, the second "bedroom" is laughably small and the plumbing is old and cantankerous, but flaws and all, I love my house. Life's been pretty damn great inside these walls, and I feel as comfortable here as I do in the Massachusetts house where I grew up.
I sometimes think I know this house better than I know myself. In my little pink home, I'm safe and comfy and totally at ease. I could find my way within this space with eyes blindfolded; I know this place, and I know how I fit into it. And maybe that's why it's such a scary thing to think about going away.
So it's not moving that sends me into a frenzied panic, so much as leaving. But the thing I'm trying to remember is this: the thing that's really made this house home isn't anything physical. It isn't the kitchen or the bedroom or the backyard, the walls or the roof or the ground. It's the good times we've enjoyed here and the happy life we've made for ourselves. The former we'll bring with us, in photos and stories and great memories. As for the latter, that we'll do our best to keep right on building… no matter where in the world we go.
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