My parents moved out of my childhood home this past week. Well, sort of. They definitely moved out. That home was complicated for me, having been partially rebuilt 30 years ago after our house fire.
As my parents sifted through their lives there were the inevitable questions of what I might want. Yet as I reflected, many of the things I had fond memories of were from the pre-fire era. The first 18 years of my life.
I made choices. And took all the remaining items that had been mine, which I’m slowly sifting through as I have energy and help. Correspondence, photos, t-shirts, stuffed animals, baby teeth.
This morning my Thanksgiving cactus is blooming. It was my mom’s and she sent it with me many years ago at the end of a visit.
My gut is a mess right now, but I’m trying real food for breakfast, and I pulled out one of my parents’ dishes. I love them, and they are a relic of pre-fire times.
And I asked my mother to bring me a rock last month when they brought up a final round of boxes to me. Mica schist from the land. It’s currently on my dresser with a sweet bit of rose quartz.
It’s often hard when we make big transitions. I’m sad that I wasn’t able to go to say goodbye to the house or the land. I can’t travel anymore. But I’m hopeful that my parents will have more freedom and fewer responsibilities in this next chapter. And for that I’m grateful.