At that same house, my father lifted me up to peek at sky blue robin eggs cradled in a nest inside a blue spruce tree. I can still feel my sense of wonder. I carried that sense of wonder with me ever after. Thanks dad.
Home is not four or seven walls. Home is the people you love. You take home with you everywhere you go. I rarely remember the walls, the carpets or the furniture of a house I've lived in, I always remember the love and the people.
This time as we pack up the years, the memories in this house are not mine. This house was my husband's family home. Generations lived under its suburban roof. Despite only knowing his family's most recent generation, I feel the pull of memories from all he has told me. Story upon story of these people, his people, now gone, whom I have grown to love.
Leaving is hard. It almost always will be. But staying would be harder. Home is within. You carry it from place to place.
You keep plodding your route to your own future, whatever that may be, and you live for what you hope might be, understanding that those who are now gone...did the same exact thing.