A few years ago, my parents got rid of their landline. I cried. It seemed stupid at the time. That phone number was the first number we ever had and the only number we ever had. 515-232-4613. It was the number I called to reach home, my loved ones.
Monday my mom accepted an offer on our house. If I thought letting go of the landline was tough, this seems impossible. I have called that house "home" more than half of my life. Now suddenly someone else will be living there. They will cook in our kitchen that my dad put counters into. They'll wipe spills off the backsplash he tiled. They'll sit in the living room he painted at least 10 times because my mom didn't like the color or wanted something new. They will look out the windows he put in. They will relax in the shower he installed a few years back and get ready in front of the mirror he hung. I hope they will sit on the porch and enjoy the brick patio he spent countless weeks perfecting, and I hope they watch the flowers grow that he helped plant.
That house, those walls, each brick ... it seems that's all we have left of him to hold onto. He shaped it and perfected it with those hands. And then I remember that's not the only thing he shaped and molded and took care of all those years. We have each other. And I guess for now, that has to be enough.
Another door closes.
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