I was in my house or what would be for another day on which a sale would be consummated. My house. So many years of my family bonding together, sharing the divine warmth of everyone sleeping under the same roof, comforting each other even during sleep.
It was that time in life when size of the house was deemed unnecessary and it seemed financially advisable to sell.
I wanted to kiss every inch of its floors and reminisce about the wonderful events of which it would forever be a depository.
The memories of the house were permeated with love and warmth and hugging and crying and laughter and all the good things that life could entail. It was a magic house, a fine and splendid magic house. It was a thing of beauty, tangibly and ethereally. Its warmth had not changed since my first encounter with it.
I was driving into work when a temporary detour caused me to drive by the house which sported a
"FOR SALE BY OWNER" SIGN. I wrote down the phone number and thought of nothing else all the day long. The next day, my alpha brain in high drive, I knocked on the magic door and introduced myself to the Madam, a lovely charming woman. I told her why I was there and she gave me a cook's tour. It was love at first sight.
Every room beckoned with warmth, as if the sun would never go down and its purpose was my relaxation. The price was beyond my means but I knew I had to reach for it JUST BECAUSE YOU HAVE TO TRY TO GO FOR IT since I had fallen in love.
Today, even 55 years later, my son and daughter will tell the present owners of their connection to their home and they are greeted with friendship and allowed to examine the premises. I'm not strong enough for that. I'd never make it. Let my dreams nourish me.
This post was not meant to be sad but happy endings are not always manageable.
And my memories are non-tarnishable.
My warm and happy memories.