It was College Graduation Day and it was raining.

To celebrate our accomplishment, my five roommates and I hosted a graduation party at the house we called home for two years – 912 8th St South, Moorhead MN, (56562). Despite the inclement weather, The Outback Steakhouse (for a mere $150) set up a tent on our back parking pad with two over-sized grills and fed 60 of our family and friends a feast of BBQ ribs & chicken, caesar salad, baked potatoes, and cheesecake. Inside we turned moving bin lids into table tops and filled our house with people, laughter and chaos for one last time. When the party ended, the families went back to their hotel rooms to rest up for the move in the morning and the six girls retreated to their rooms for one last night.

Tomorrow was moving day.

I remember walking down to my bedroom in the dungeon (the basement). The room was dark except for the glow of a multi-colored lamp I had purchased a WalMart. I remember my boyfriend sitting on the bed as I slowly sank to the floor. The carpet was as hard as concrete; equally as cold and less attractive. And the contrast of a day filled with excitement and celebration, to the sad silence of a final night in a place called home was sharp and emptying.

Sitting on that chilled, hideous floor, I simply started to cry.
A few tears turned into graceful sobs as I mourned the end (of an era).
Under that roof, I knew what to expect – the good, the bad, and (living with six girls, a double major and an extreme dislike of doing the dishes) the ugly. I loved that house and everything it was to me; a place for me to grow from a girl into a young woman. I knew that walking out of that house meant leaving behind a time of innocence, forever.

And so I cried.

—

The next morning the rain had stopped but the pavement was still wet. I loaded the last few items into my red Chevy Beretta and hugged my roommates (friends for life) goodbye. Just before I climbed in the car to start the long drive to whatever lay ahead, I looked back over my shoulder (in spite of how cheesy it was) at the house that was mine for only as long as that final glance lasted.

It was still (but truthfully, it was always still).
Against the gray sky it looked a little sad (but truthfully, everything looks a little sad against a gray sky).
And though it looked sad, it also looked pleased.
Pleased it had done its job. Please it kept me safe. Pleased I was moving on.

I climbed in my car and as I drove away, I could feel the house breathe a sigh of relief.
—

It was a Monday night and Michael, my real estate impassioned (“It’s still the best place to put your money”) husband, mentioned that he had seen a house. A house that had just dropped in price. A house that we might want to consider taking a look at.

When he casually mentioned it over dinner, we were living in a beautiful little home we had purchased and fixed up just two years earlier. We tore out walls, we put in wood floors, we labored over light fixtures, and we created a backyard heaven. And though it was a little tight — only three closets, two bedrooms, one bath and a mere 1,100 square feet that had been entirely overrun by baby gear — we weren’t really looking to buy something new.

Nevertheless, on Tuesday we looked at the “new” house together – a four bedroom, three bathroom, plenty of room for the gear of many babies- house. We stood at the top of the stairs, surrounded by unlimited closets and space (and all in the right school district) and gave each other the “lesdoit” look.

On Friday there was a sign in our front yard that read: FOR RENT.

I should have been excited. I should have been. The house was exactly what we wanted but thought we couldn’t have. We could live comfortably in that house for at least ten years. And, (though it wasn’t necessary but certainly a bonus), the house was even closer to my favorite jumbo chocolate chip cookies. But for whatever reason, I just couldn’t get excited…
Because moving into a new house…

Meant leaving my home.

The home whose walls I marked with a Sharpie to take down.

The home where we had to buy a tree to bury our kitten in the backyard.

The home where we laid on the bed and timed, what I thought were gas pains, until it was time to go to the hospital.

The home where I sang my baby to sleep in his tiny little nursery.

Under that roof, I knew what to expect – the good, the bad, and (living with a husband, a baby, and two cats in 1,100 square feet) the ugly. I loved that house and everything it was to me; a place for me to grow from a young woman into a wife, a mother. And it kept me safe as I did both. I knew that walking out of that house meant leaving behind a time of innocence, forever.

However, this time there wasn’t any time for crying.

On Friday, November 4th, (after many trials and tribulations that are a story of their own),
at 5pm we got the keys to the new house.

Saturday morning, it was raining. In Phoenix.
I knew it was time.

At 7:30am the movers showed up. Then a painter arrived to erase the blue from the walls in my bedroom and the green from the walls in Arn’s. Then Stanley Steamer Carpet Cleaner did quick work of the two small squares of carpet. And finally a general cleaning crew arrived to remove any trace of us living there at all.

At 7pm the new renters moved in.

I was there when it happened.
It was a young couple – recently engaged, the world at their feet. They were so excited, I could tell. Excited about the backyard (especially since we “handled” the gophers), excited about the dark wood floors, excited about the open space the walls we had removed created.

I loaded the last few bins (of crap — because that’s always what is in the last few bins) into my car; Michael was going to stay behind to go over the details – that the faucets in the shower were actually the opposite of what they said, that the fridge door sometimes stuck when you opened the freezer, and that someone wrote something on the underside of the toilet seat.

After shaking their hands and wishing them luck, Michael went into the house to wrap things up and I climbed into my car. But before I started the 1 mile drive to the new place I would call home, I looked back over my shoulder at the house that, though we still owned it, was no longer ours.

It was still (but truthfully, it was always still).
Against the evening sky it looked a little sad. And I was sad too.
I hoped to never forget the warmth of that kitchen during the holidays, or how cozy the couch felt watching Modern Family on a Wednesday night, or how long it took us to get the photo mural hung just right on our bedroom wall, or the way Arn’s room looked at three in the morning.

But while saying goodbye is never easy, it is no reason to stand still.
Though the house looked sad, it also seemed pleased.
Pleased it had done its job. Please it kept me safe. Pleased we were moving on.

I put the car in drive and as I drove away, I could feel the house breathe a sigh of relief..

Because we lived the heck out of that place.

(photos by melissa jill)