Hello, little house you are a good one indeed. A nice craftsman home, it’s all that we’ll need. The rooms aren’t huge, the bathroom is tiny, but it has character and quirkiness just begging us, “try me.”
And so, rooms they were painted, and furniture acquired. Before we knew it our wondering ways seemed all but retired.
The house projects abounded, while simultaneously, long-lasting relationships with neighbors were founded.
This place was familiar, and comfortable and calm. Then came the babe who rested her head in my palm.
There were sink baths, first steps, and marking of heights. We had garden-time days and long painful nights. We endured struggle and strife through the early infant stages and the house held that history like a book holds its pages.
Time kept on rolling as it always does and this house had evolved from what it once was. We tinkered and spruced; infused our blood, sweat, and tears. Before we knew it the time that passed had turned into years. It was more than a house; it had become our home, even though we had itchy feet still wanting to roam.
Then came the day when life handed us change. We would be moving cross-country to start a new stage.
Except, now I have a learned map of the squeaks in the floor and an intimate understanding about the wiggle to the front door. I know the moans of the woodstove in all of its glory, and the Mountain View from the kitchen that greets me each morning.
The memories here are plenty, and heart filled, and raw. But memories are memories and can be taken afar.
So, goodbye little house here’s to all that you are.