This is our last night, as a family, in this house. We bought our house when Maggie was just a year and a half old. She is nearly eleven, now, and I cannot fathom where the time has wandered. Memories sprout as my feet sprint up the stairs, to our bedroom, for one remaining slumber. I remember our little girl’s squeaky voice, as she woke us each morning. I see her, still, in my memory, swinging so high to touch the birds. I think of the brown crayon from the top of the stair rail to the bottom step, as she dragged the crayon between her fingers and declared, “Look Mommy, I made stairs!” I never cleaned those “stairs” from the wall. I couldn’t bring myself to do it. 

I look back on potty training days, kindergarten firsts, homeschooling, days of bike riding, planting flowers, making dinners, snuggles, kisses, one magical snowy day, holidays, birthdays, hunting for ladybugs, saying farewell to Barty dog, bringing home Mae Mae, washing cars, playing games, bubble blowing, bath time singing, and measure marks on the office closet wall. She grew. Oh, how she grew. 

The long days and nights of pregnancy, bringing her brother home from the hospital, nursing and rocking, and rocking and nursing. His first step, finally! Headbanging, tears, spasms, comforting.

The love of my Scott, who shares all of these past-tenses with me. We are sad. It is bittersweet to move forward, acknowledging that our days of 20 somethings, and even 30 somethings, are behind us. 

You have been good to us, wonderful house. Thank you for respite and safe-keeping, when the outside world became too much bear. Thank you for being our home.  Thank you for the memories. 

   Moving in.