This weekend we moved my grandmother from her longtime, old victorian home in a town near none of us, into a smaller home closer to family and her doctors. It’s a really wonderful move for her and I’m so excited she is finally out from under the weight of that old house.
Growing up, my grandmother’s home was always a wonderful place to visit, and there’s a small pang of sadness for me at saying goodbye to that old house. The way the light came into the kitchen, the tall kitchen cabinets, the beautiful stairs where I used to sit as a kid and stick my head through the spot where a baluster was missing, the maze of rooms upstairs, the beautiful wallpaper in the guest room. And while the house was really unique and special, it was special because I was with family. It was the home of my amazing grandmother.
This move is also a bit layered for me because the home my grandmother is moving into is the home where X and I lived for three years, just before we got married, as he worked his way through undergrad and I became a teacher. The house is owned by my parents and we rented it for those years. Now, it’s the home of my grandmother. And while my parents did a lot of interior renovations since we lived there, I knew it would still feel like our old home.
It was a bit hard, but not as bad as I expected. It felt like our own home, and to be sure the memories were there in each room and as I walked down the hall. But the memories were very distant, as from a bygone era. And really, that time is long gone. I think those were our happiest years, but they were over ten years ago. I had pangs of sadness and longing for what once was. But it was sadness with perspective. It was okay. And honestly, the house is so wonderful. It will be the perfect place for my grandmother and I love the idea that it will hold her the way it held us, each in our own time. I continue to move on.