The process seems to be taking forever. I have had trouble feeling like this new house is home. I miss our old house. We had put a lot of work into to make it ours. It felt like ours, looked like ours and smelt like ours. Now, I have found myself in another house that lacks all of the familiar. It has been difficult for me.
Yesterday I heard a knock on the door. As I opened the door, I noticed the hands of the lady standing before me were shaking and she seemed unsure of what to say. "Perhaps a neighbor welcoming us into the neighborhood," I mused. I listened as she explained the reason for her visit.
"My Dad used to live at this house. I have the garage door opener and I wanted to drop it off." I suddenly understood the reason for her shaking voice and hands. We had purchased the home through and estate. I am led to believe that grief was causing the quiver in her voice - grief has done that to me a time or two.
I quickly invited her in and asked her to come sit down. I offered her something to drink and then sat across the room from her. I wanted to hear more. I asked her about her father, her family and her memories; and I asked her about the old house.
She had been 12 when they moved into this old house 60 years ago. She told me about her bedroom upstairs and how she shared it with her sister. She told me about playing house in the attic and where she played with her dolls. She reminisced about her summers in the yard and neighborhood. She cried as she told me about her Mother's untimely death when she was just 15 years old; and how suddenly. as the oldest daughter, the house became hers as the responsibilities of housework rested on her shoulders. She told how the neighbor lady next door (whom I met this past weekend) took her under her wing and taught a young grieving girl how to be a homemaker much before her time.
She told me about her late father who passed away in February. His heroic acts in World War II and the medals that she found when she was packing away his things. She told me how kind and compassionate he was and how healthy and full of life he had been before the cancer. She told me how she lived here and cared for him his last 3 months as health deteriorated. She paused and asked if talking about her father's death bothered me. I assured her it didn't - birth and death are all a natural part of life. She told how he wanted to die at home and how peaceful and painless his death was just a few months ago. She held my baby closer and cried as she told me how much she missed him. Then she told me how thankful she was that a family had moved into the old place.
She stood up to leave much sooner than I would have liked. We embraced before she left; and I felt like I had made a new friend. As she hugged me goodbye, I could tell the grief was still so hard for her to bear; and yet, seeing the kids and the happiness in the home now somehow helped her. She told me how happy her visit had made her and how happy her father would be to know there were children in the old house once again.
I waved goodbye to her from the porch and watched as she drove away. I walked back into the house. Suddenly, it did not feel so foreign to me anymore. I now understood a bit of the laughter and the pain that had been here before us; and after the short visit, the house felt like home. Funny how perspectives can change in such a short time. I'm finding myself loving this old place. Our home sweet home.
Thanks so much for stopping by; I am so glad you did!