Here's some more thoughts from my weekend at "home."
The car pulls out of the driveway and I turn around in my seat to get a glimpse of the house, nearly hitting my head on the fishing poles which jut out from the back seat. I look at the yard filled with rocks, wildflowers, and cactus, in full bloom even though it's February.
Once it was filled with grass as we played endless games of "what time is it Mr. Fox," "tag," and countless others that have been long-forgotten. Once it was surrounded by a white-picket fence and the side of the house held a blue and yellow swing set.
The yard, with it's rocks and cactus, is still beautiful. Still brings up memories of my father planting wildflowers and taking such pride in the landscaping.
"It could be some time before it sells," my husband says softly as we drive away.
"I know." I stay turned around watching the green and white house grow smaller and smaller. The house that holds a thousand memories, all of which flicker through my mind at once.
I haven't lived there for years, so why is it this difficult?
We round the corner, the contents of the over-packed car shifting. The house disappears from my view and we drive away.
~Suzanne Lazear 2/17/14