My family and I are saying goodbye to the old house this week. My father and I both grew up here. I took some photos right before the last of the packing to remember things the way they were. It seems that every inch of this place holds a memory... The break in the ceiling where my dad put his foot through the attic floor. The wood paneling that I spent countless nights reconstructing vast alien landscapes in my mind. The doorway where my siblings and I exaggerated our heights. The secret room that we could never find. Rollerskating through my dad's den. My mom falling asleep on the couch after working in the yard all day. The handprints my father and I put on the basement beam after painting the walls 40 years apart. All the cats that have cried at the window to come in. The brook, where we would dig clay out of and make bowls that would disintegrate in the first rain. The woods, where I learned about the magic of nature... I could write volumes about this little old house, but the stories have come to an end. I know I will miss this place forever.
--m
