House Not Home

I’ve been thinking about this post for well over a week.
Notice I said THINKING ABOUT, not actually writing. When I’m stressed out I tend to think about writing often, and then find ten million reasons why I’m too stressed to actually do it.

The anxiety has been centered around selling my home in Columbia, Missouri.
More accurately, I suppose, I am selling my house there.
My home is absolutely & unequivocally in Central Florida now.

Selling a house is surely always a bit tricky, but was even more so attempted from hundreds of miles away, with little notice, at the tail-end of one of the worst Winters in recent memory. Yikes & sigh.

But let’s rewind 22 years ago, almost to the day.
I sauntered into this darlin’ old house built in the 1920’s with its original hardwoods, bay windows, & pocket door, and was instantly charmed.
I knew I was home.

What stands out in memory all these years later?

Well, practical upkeep for one. Old houses need a lot of TLC. And since I also purchased a business that same year, I just didn’t have room in my life or heart for so much damned work.
It was too much.
I was ill-prepared.

What else?

I remember the pride of hosting my first family Thanksgiving there. Sarah C (then White) helped with the fancy pomegranate centerpieces & my mom’s face glowed with approval, bathed in candlelight.

Not soon after I recall getting a custom CD display made for my home office. Hired a carpenter & errything. I thought I was ballin’!
And yessss, I said CD display. It seemed like the most practical thing imaginable at the time. After all, I’d ALWAYS need hundreds of CDs at my disposal, right? RIGHT?!
Or maybe not.

A young life well lived is what I will carry with me from 410 N. 9th St.
Friends & family & lovers, shitty wine-sewing central, shelves o’ thrift shop finds & books.
Conversations with Monica T.
Orbit altering conversations with Monica T.

Much later the house was just stuffed with stuff, anyway.
Disappointments.
Unfinished projects.
Remnants of fear.
It became a constant physical reminder that I wasn’t where I wanted to be, with whom I wanted to be, &
wasn’t who I needed to be, ultimately.
Just coasting.
Numbly.

Folks keep asking me if selling it now is somehow bittersweet.
Nah.
A change was needed & finally made.
That sentiment seems to be a reoccurring theme in these parts.
Nothing bitter.
Just sweet.