A Final Farewell
A Final Farewell
Even though I hadn’t lived there in over fifty years, I still called it Home.
It’s the last day, the day before the real estate sign goes up, and I’m taking my time walking through the empty rooms.
I realize it’s the first time I’ve ever seen it vacant. It’s odd the flashes of images that suddenly appear in now empty corners — furniture that sat unmoved for fifty years, the old piano that I banged on when I was ten, the bookcase that held my Christmas stocking until I was nine.
Earlier that morning, I’d watched as relatives and friends loaded their pickups with furniture, appliances, and the few remaining personal items not sold at the estate sale. The things they left, out-of-date clothing, worn shoes, and mismatched glassware, were dropped off at Goodwill. There’s a sad irony in seeing treasures from the past — things my parents had willingly traded their money for — gathered up and thrown in a box because no one wants them.
I check my watch, remembering the schedule, the appointments, and the papers that need to be signed. Important things. Things that should take priority over reminiscing about an old house.
But as I take one last look at the bare living room walls where the family pictures once hung, the memories pull me back to a time when life unfolded each day as a new adventure. It was a time when I looked forward to birthdays, Christmas, and summer vacations. A time when everything — including me — was new.
Opening the door to my old room, I’m struck by how small it seems. It was my entire universe once — a place where I’d sit for hours, building models, listening to the radio, and sometimes, just staring out the window thinking of all the places I would go as an adult.
During my teen years, it became communication central, a place from which I made hopeful but gut-wrenching phone calls to girls I wanted to ask out. It was a real campaign, planning my strategy, scripting my conversation, and making sure to call no later than Tuesday night for a Saturday night date because popular girls didn’t stay by the phone waiting for a call — from me.
I open a couple of windows to make sure they’re not painted shut. Outside, the breeze carries the faint scent of blooming jasmine. I look to the side and see an old, dilapidated trellis covered with small, white blossoms. My mother had planted it years ago. She often commented on the plant’s resilience, especially when she became too feeble to work in the garden.
As I make a final walkthrough, making sure the lights are off and the doors are locked, I wonder if the real estate agent will find it important that the property has been a one-owner home. I find it amazing, especially compared to how many times I’ve moved. And yet, my parents had bought one home, moved in, and lived there for the rest of their lives. Because, according to my dad, one home was all they needed. They never outgrew it and never needed to downsize.
As I check the mailbox for the last time, I realize that it won’t be long before a different name is stenciled on the box. Soon, the memories of laughter and life that once filled the old house will belong to someone else.
The thought stops me cold. The idea of strangers walking through the halls, filling the rooms with new voices and new stories, seems strange and out of place. But so does the old house, sitting vacant and still.
I tell myself a house without life is just an empty shell. And this house deserves to be filled with love and laughter, not left empty and unprotected. Slowly, I make peace with the fact that it’s time to let someone else make their memories here — time for another family to make this house a home.
I seldom visit my old home town anymore. But when I do, I take the time to drive by the old house. Sometimes, I park on the street and look at the changes the current owner has made.
If I look closely, especially in the late afternoon, my memory fills in the missing pieces: the rosebushes that lined the fence, the planter underneath the living room window, and the two huge pine trees that formed a canopy over the sidewalk and driveway. And throughout all of it, darting shadows of my younger self, playing in the yard.
And if the season is right, I can just make out the scent of Jasmine on the breeze, reminding me that resilience and love continue to bloom. . .
Even after we’ve moved on.
Thanks for reading,
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Roger A. Reid, Ph.D. is a certified NLP trainer with degrees in engineering and business. Roger is the author of Better Mondays and Speak Up, and host of Success Point 360 Podcast, offering tips and strategies for achieving higher levels of career success and personal fulfillment in the real world.