A couple of years ago my family and I decided we needed to move into a bigger space. We were living in 1000 square feet with three people, two dogs and a cat. It was three bedrooms, two baths and clutter as far as the eye could see.
We talked about it for a long time until I finally put my foot down. If we’re going to move, we need to take the steps to make that happen. Thirty days later, we purchased a 1400 square foot, ranch style house.
And it’s nice. Really nice. Spacious, clean, filled with cherished stuff from the old house and brand, new stuff. One of our dogs passed so we adopted a lab puppy who loves running around in the backyard. An actual backyard with grass and space to run. The three year old malti-poo loves it too.
Except, I miss the old space. Is that weird?
I miss the crowded living room when we all piled in there together under a dingy light because nothing ever worked quite right.
And the memories. There were so many. My grandniece lived from birth to twelve years old in that place. We tracked her height in that cliche way that people do. But, she added to it with drawings and comments all around the lines that marked her growth.
Christmas mornings and the first day of school and the raucousness of just living in a space that’s too small but still just right.
It was my first purchased home and I thought I’d live there forever. I think I’ll miss it forever now.
Even if the new house is bigger and nicer and perfect. It’s hard to imagine it will ever be home.