The countdown commences…

I’m not going to lie. This is hard.

I’m sitting in what was once the bedroom that I shared with Jamie for sixteen years. We moved down to our new space in 2020, and my daughter's family moved in upstairs. A lot of life happened in this room. A lot of wonderful nights, a lot of tearful nights, a lot of prayers, a lot of laughter, a lot of love was shared here.

Now it sits empty, with only the faint echos of my memories whispering from the blank walls. It’s mine for one more week. Next Sunday I will be heading to North Carolina with a U-Haul loaded with my few essentials; my albums, clothes, books, and instruments along with the few sticks of furniture I need to contain them. 

I will fly back to Atlanta on the ninth and spend one final night alone in my house. On the tenth I will sign the documents, hand over the keys, and this home that I created with the help of my wife and children will become just another place where I used to live.

Today I will continue to sort through the accumulated fragments that remain and throw them away, give them away, or box them up for storage. Or I might just sit on my porch and watch it rain.

It’s still my porch. It’s still my house. But it is no longer home. Walking away from it will be a relief, the turning of the final page, and the end of an incredible chapter of my life. It’s hard to be here, I am not comfortable in the empty space. The weight of the silence is almost as crushing as the looming moment of finality when everything that defined my life will be gone.

I’m grateful for my children and family. We are all struggling, but we are standing in solidarity, facing the inevitable future with the casual stoicism that my family has perfected over the years. What cannot be changed must be endured. Endurance is aided by the use of cynical wit and sheer cussedness. We will get through this moment. We will still love each other on the other side.

And even though we will be scattered across the planet, we will be connected by the shared memories of this space, this refuge, this bastion of peace in the midst of our chaotic world. It was a good life that we carved out together.

I miss that life. I miss the noise and the commotion, the animals and the clutter, the half-eaten scraps of food lying on the counter and the sound of slamming doors and laughter.

I miss the smells from the kitchen, the inside jokes, and the smile on her face that promised a beautiful evening after the dishes were done. I miss the notes on scraps of paper, and the faint hum of the living, a palpable reminder of our collective existence.

I miss the circular discussions about people and events that I cared nothing about. I miss Jamie. I miss my daughter and my son in law. I miss my grandchildren. I miss my dog. I miss the things that made this empty house a home.

I had it all four months ago. Today, my home is gone. I have one more week in my house.

I’m not going to lie. This is hard.