Closing Another Chapter

My dad's house is sold; the closing is on Friday.  My dear friend M has helped us as much as the real estate agent, the attorney, the financial planner/accountant. The furniture has been shipped out to me--on its way. The wine wall has been collected, the books and remaining stuff packed and prepared for charity. The charity guy came today and picked up everything; even the left over cleaning supplies in the bathroom! The only stuff left is what my sister wants to keep. She says she'll be over there tomorrow.
And then it will be empty.

I am trying to see the house in my mind, like it was the day we moved in; it was empty then, too, but pregnant with possibilities. I remember each person's excitement was palpable! My parents, buying their first house, were thrilled, worried, and proud; my sister and I were so happy to have our own rooms. And we got to pick the colors!

I remember the hardwood floors, the big windows. The sunlight. The kitchen, so much bigger than any of the apartment kitchens we'd lived in. My mother was going to *cook.* The family room downstairs, the fireplace...We roasted hot dogs in that fireplace, made popcorn, and once we even grilled a steak.  My dad built bookcases into the walls for all of my mother's beloved books. And the wine wall. He built that in, too. It was a glorious house surrounded by young pine trees. Many hundreds of memories are flooding my brain like snapshots--the pool in the summers, my grandmother visiting, learning how to walk in heels like a lady, sleepover parties. These come to me now as I envision the space after thirty years of living in it.  It has come full circle.  The house has come full circle.

 I can imagine the newly pruned trees are letting in all the sunlight in the sky, warming the wooden floors. The ivory walls are bare, waiting. The scent of eucalyptus and lemon Hall's menthol cough drops still hangs in the air of the hunter green master bedroom. The two remaining bedrooms, one for my sister and one for me, stand still in time with the wallpaper we were allowed to select as teenagers.

It is bare again, but not for long. Waiting for new joys, with the old ones seeped into the walls, between the boards in the floor. I said to my husband, many years ago, that I could never be sentimental about "a house."  I wish I could have gone one last time, to the empty house, to let it seep into me, to curl itself into my heart. I have said good bye to it several times in my life:  as I left for college then grad school, as a young married woman, at my mother's funeral, after my semester at home with dad, at my father's funeral, at the cleaning out of my father's possessions, and now, as it is about to start a new life.

When last I left the house, I spent a few minutes in my father's beautiful bedroom and let scent of it cling to me. I kissed the front door as I closed and locked it.  I mean, I guess I'll never be in that house again, and I wonder if ever I'll be in my hometown again. We are dispersed to the winds, like that dandelion who's petals turn into fairies and float heavenward.