This month is a marker for me and my family. We will sell the house that I have called home for 48 years. It is the only home I have ever known. My parents were raised in Powhatan, VA but moved to Culpeper after my Daddy graduated from the State Police Academy. My sister, Jojuan, was the only child then. Up until I was born, my family lived in several places. All of these my sisters can recall. Not me. I moved into the home my parents built in 1963. I was one.
The memories of this home are many. Stacked upon each other like a decadent dessert, the memories are rich. So rich. So very, very rich.
I am having a hard time letting go. This is very hard for me. This house represents the last tangible thing I have of my parents. The finality of it all is hitting me hard. I don't know what to do with these emotions. No more birthdays here. No more Christmases celebrated here.
I am a tactile person. I want to run my hands down the walls. I want to feel the crayon marks on the back of the bedroom door that to this day, has my height recorded on it since I was small. The last time I marked my height on same door? 2010.
My favorite pet is buried here. I sleep better here than any other place on earth. I feel peace here.
Is a house a home? Or is it the people that make it so? My head says it is just a structure. My heart says otherwise. Will I reconcile the two?
Will anyone remember the Lawson Family that occupied this dwelling for 48 years? Will the new owners find love, peace and contentment here?
Will children play in the yard? Will they keep the grass mowed? My Daddy kept a nice yard.
My Momma planted flowers.
My Momma planted flowers.
10393--you have been good to me. This is the house that built me.
