Dear House,

Seven years ago, on the day before Thanksgiving, we pulled into your driveway and began our journey here.  I could not believe that you were mine.  Tomorrow, on the day before Thanksgiving, we will pull out of your driveway and end this journey.  And I am reminded that the things we think belong to us usually don't... at least not forever. 

 

It's been a good trip.  We built a life here, and I'm glad to take the memories with us.  Walking through you, I can see scenes from our life.  So many people we were glad to know.  So many happy moments.  I wouldn't even trade the difficult ones.  I know you're an inanimate object, but somehow you also feel like an old friend.  It is hard for me to look around and see a collection of empty rooms.  I have taken everything that wasn't nailed down, and let's face it, I took some stuff that was, as well.   

But I am leaving you one memory of us:

And the chalkboard.  I am leaving you the chalkboard, because I can't figure out how to get it off the wall:

I hope you will soon have new inhabitants that love you as much as we did.  I wonder if they will walk in, declare you the house of their dreams, and then begin to repaint and remodel.  I wonder if they will outgrow you.  If they do, I hope another family will come... and another... and another...  I hope more babies come home here and more children grow up here.  And I have asked God to bless you, from top to bottom, and to bless the people that live here in the days and years to come.

I have to stop writing now.  I wish I could stop crying.

Love,

L.