Saying goodbye

Some twenty months after the passing of my parents, we were finally able to close the sale of their home this week, bringing a close to the final chapter of the story of their life. There are still days where I think of them, and take a deep breath, a heavy sigh. But like all things, as you put more space between a heartbreaking loss and your current life, the hurts become less painful. The cloud of grief that once enveloped you now is that occasional cloud in the sky. The memories are still clear, but new memories have joined them in your mental notebook, adding to the story as you continue your journey.

Over the weekend, I had to make one more trip out to the house to pick up the last couple of items. I quickly loaded them into my car, then paused for a second. Knowing that this would be the last time I would stand here at mom and dad’s house, I walked up to the front porch and took a last look in the front window. The house stood empty; with no curtains, the house seemed like a shell, just floors and walls.

The back of the house looks to the west, facing the setting sun. It was late in the evening, so the sun was low in the sky. The sun’s rays poured in the back windows, flooding the entire house with a bright light that spilled through the front windows into the front yard. I stood and looked, thinking about how stark, how empty it all seemed. And yet, in that light, I could see the story of the house, of my parents, of their life. Of my life.

The dining room table, where we shared family dinner every night; hamburgers and homemade potato salad on Saturday nights, ham or roast on Sundays.

The dining room chair where dad always sat – right in the center of it all. I don’t recall him ever sitting in another place. Ever. If you’re a fan of TV’s Big Bang Theory, it was like Sheldon’s spot on the couch. That chair, that spot. It was his and his alone.

The living room, and the piano. And another piano. And an organ. And maybe another piano. Music everywhere. Evenings playing piano/trumpet duets with mom.

The kitchen and mom’s homemade bread.

Seeing through the house to the backyard…the tent pitched for the summer and sleeping outside. Playing frisbee. Grumbling at having to pick up rocks in the garden every spring, but happily eating fresh corn on the cob in the late summer.

I had not considered that this last visit would be an emotional one. The house had been empty for so long. And yet, as it came time to get in the car to head home, I couldn’t move. As Bob Bennett once said in his song Kings of Summer Street, “You think you get away so clean, until the moment that you find memories stick like bubble gum, under your shoe and in your mind, just when you think you won’t get caught, you’ll find it’s you that can’t let go of everything that you’ve been taught, there’s no forgetting what you think you know.” I finally broke loose, got into the car and headed for my home, with tears slowly dripping down my face.

The story of mom and dad’s house does not end there, though. In just a few days, new owners will walk in the front door for the first time in over 60 years. A young couple, set to be married later this summer. Much like my parents did back in the late 50’s, they will excitedly plan where to put their dining room table. Perhaps their house will be filled with music, like ours was for so long. They have plans to put in a garden, and enjoy those late summer evenings with hot fresh ears of corn, with butter dripping. They will begin to build their bank of memories, perhaps even with a child or two. Or maybe four. And maybe someday, that fourth child will stand on the front porch, looking through a house with the setting sun casting a warm glow throughout every room. Perhaps they too will stand, stuck to that front porch, taking it all in, and be thankful.