Last week, we moved--as in, physical labor move with boxes and movers and the once again realization that there are few things on the planet less fun than taking your belongings out of one home and putting them in another.
This was our eighth move but only our fourth involving moving out of a home we owned. I remember now why moving has not been a frequent occurrence in our family.
If moving is a pain then owning a home is like a constant headache. But, it's also a symbol of one's family dynamic. That's why it stung me last week when I stood in an empty house and looked into the dining room--the scene of so many family meals, holiday gatherings, and get-togethers with friends. I realized that it was this house that I had most identified with; it was this house where so many major family moments had occurred, thus stirring so many special memories.
We're now in a new place--shiny and fixed up, ready for new organization and prepared for new memories. As we drove by the old house on Saturday, though, I saw people moving into "our house"--no, not the new one but the one just vacated. You see, it's still "our house" to me and it was foreign watching new people, with smiling faces, taking their belongings into a house with my memories.
For me, in this case, you can't go home again. Thomas Wolfe had it right.