Paperwork signed and everything is official. I'm homeless.
I left my key on the counter, cried the suggested amount... maybe more. This house has been my five year project. I feel like we're breaking up. I was feeling nostalgic after just six hours of not being there. I've left my house by itself for that long before, I just haven't left it knowing I can never walk back through it ever again. I struggled walking out the door and locking it just because I wanted to peek back in one last time.
Selling my things wasn't so hard. So long, junk I've been collecting! The good stuff went to nice homes (or so I'm told). People were happy to find whatever treasures I felt I could live without now. It felt good, refreshing, and energizing.
Selling the house was harder than I expected. Not even the selling part...just the leaving. The emotion finally hit me today. Leaving the bookshelves I designed and my dad made. My library. The hours I spent after work in the middle of freezing cold January painting the bathroom or taking staples out of the floor. Hating mowing the lawn. Attempting to get plants to grow. The weekends with my parents tackling every project under the sun. Even though home-ownership was not my talent, I have loved it all. At least the memories don't stay with the house.
Here's my house the day that I bought it (Jan 2009):
And after painting it:
And yesterday when I finally locked the door one last time (Apr 2014):
Someone else will love my house. I hope they do. I also hope they let me back in this week when I accidentally show up there because I've forgotten where I live now.
I miss it already.
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