Saying goodbye to the house that held us.

I can't help but feel, as the train rolls down the Hudson River in the blue cotton candy-like sky, that this is the last and final time I have said goodbye to our childhood home. The past six months have been an exhausting effort, not only physically, but emotionally as well. The work and energetic exchange that comes with preparing the only house you knew is beyond anything I can explain, put to words, nor anything life's lessons can get you ready for. I've been caught up in the cobwebs, picked at by mites, had my fingernails torn to the wick, dumpster dove, haggle the furniture of my childhood to the highest bidder, taken two drives down to Florida, experienced what it's like to have your home broken into, and witnessed my parents get lost down memory lane.

Strange. Overwhelmed. Taken advantage of. Lost. Sad. Grateful. A part of something. Accomplished. Anxious. Loved.

As I view a perfect sliver of the waxing moon, I am reminded of new beginnings and the seeds that are planted during this auspicious time. I realize that I have burst into the tears of a true 'ugly cry', which apparently that's what trains are for.

These are not the tears of losing an item, tears of attachment, but more tears for the pillar this house has become for our family, my mom, sisters, and I. The memories and what this house meant for us. I feel as if we became the house, our blood, sweat, tears, and spirit, all merged within the floorboards, the walls, and the roof. We were all one. To me, this house was a representation and symbol of our resilience, the strength of my mom, the lessons that made us who we are. The odds were against us, we had every opportunity to become a statistic, but we didn't, we wouldn't. We couldn't have done all of this without being held the way the house held and nurtured us. It wasn't a perfect relationship, but none are. The lost banister, the shabby walls, frozen pipes, smell of sulfur, and chilly nights, were well worth the love we felt, the stars we witnessed, and the summer months outside.

Before I journey too deep into my own sadness and pity I am reminded that even-though the physical, tactile, reminder will no longer be ours, the memories will forever be mine, ours.

The 35 joyful, bright, and sometimes challenging Christmases, watching the winter snow fall gracefully in the large windows of the living room, next to the glowing wood stove, the damp chill of the morning summer air coming through my bedroom windows, the countless hours of making reeds at my little desk, on the salmon painted wicker chair, the colorful barbie heads that adorned my teenage bedroom ceiling, the first visits from the IRS, standing on the heater vents warming in a sleepy winter haze, playing in the woods before Lyme was even a word any of us knew, my sixteenth birthday party, witnessing 'god' at the age of eight, bronzing my young skin when I had time to not have a care...these memories are still ours, but it doesn't make this any less challenging. If anything, it makes it tougher to swallow.

It's these memories and experiences that created our stories, all so different, yet similar, they created the story that is us. And as I lock the backdoor behind me, I turn the nob one more time, to secure the space for the family to come after.

As I close the door I leave behind our old challenges and look forward towards the sunset and welcome our new success stories, or abundance, love, and strength. We will forever and always be the Gobins girls, we just have a new look.