Today my parents are buying a new house.Logically, I am thrilled. It's pretty. They need to be on one level. My dad needs a shower he can easily access (without going down a flight of rickety stairs every night). They will be closer to me so I can run over to help them more frequently.
But it's an odd thing to leave your childhood home. Really, I never left. A good chunk of my possessions are still in their home. But now I will really have to move out. Soon. And this new place won't contain any of my old memories: the lane I rode my bicycle up and down; the shed that my elementary friends and I briefly turned into our "secret detective headquarters"; the kitchen where my mom taught me to make black raspberry pies; and the bedroom that housed my fledgling dreams.
It will be their home, not mine.