Moving

  When I feel overwhelmed with emotions and longings that I can't figure out how to talk about, I turn to writing. I had, long ago, decided that my blog was no longer useful to me, and I would probably never write in it again. Even when I had Evelyn, I dismissed the obligatory birth story that I had always documented before. But today I need to write, and I need my words to last. My journal is packed in a box somewhere in the storage room, and so I have returned to my blog.
   In exactly one week from today we will move from Saint Joseph, and today was the first time I cried about leaving. It happened as a result of staring out the windows that overlooked the backyard, and the "woods" behind our house. As I stared at the land, I remembered how it had looked through the different seasons. I have always loved how beautiful it looked, so full of life-or rather-so full of our lives. In the cooler months of spring and fall my boys would load up their backpacks with snacks and toys and head into the woods to hunt for wolves. There were never any wolves, of course, unless you asked them, in which case there were traces of wolf packs everywhere. In the summer the yard seemed to always be filled with children running wildly. Sometimes they ran through sprinklers, sometimes up and down the play set, on the trampoline, and almost always barefoot. I remembered the streaks of popsicle stain running along their arms from where it had melted and dripped before they could finish it. In the winter time my children were undeterred by the cold. They built snow forts, and almost completely destroyed the grass at the bottom of the slide that narrowly escaped it's fate as an eternal mud hole. I remembered the trees behind the house being stunningly encased in ice, every branch and twig like a sparkling icicle. I have loved this home, and it has loved me and my family in return. But something about staring out the back window today made me stop and weep. I think it was because of how it looks today. Its a comparatively warm January day. The trees are bare and the grass is yellow. The trampoline is packed away, and my boys are in school. The yard seems desolate. It's not that it seems ugly. I could come back years from now and still see the beauty in a day like today. Its just that the land is empty of us, and any traces of us. I realized how I would love to come back to this spot, and remember our very first home, but it would not remember us. The house, the yard, the trees behind us, would have no hint that it had ever known us, housed us, or loved us. This place that I love so deeply, might just forget me.
   What a harsh thought. But I remember how true it feels after visiting every home I have ever left. The home where I grew up in Kearns, us just a house to me now. It's a home to someone else. I'm happy for whoever that Else may be, but they are strangers. They don't care about how my parents planted the tree in the front yard. When I stole my mother's favorite "sitting rock" from the front yard, I doubt they noticed or cared. When I have visited the apartments Joe and I lived in for the 4 years we were in Iowa, I get the same melancholy feeling. It was my home, but it doesn't belong to me anymore. The most I can do I park in the driveway, but not for too long, because I wouldn't want to concern whomever lives there now. I'm not welcome in those homes. And soon I won't be welcome in this Saint Joseph home. The Whitehead's house will eventually become only 4011 Bennington Drive, not to us, but for us. I won't stop wanting to watch my children play in the driveway from the front porch swing, but we won't be welcome to do so.
   I absolutely cannot have that. I must leave my mark on this home. Somewhere, where I can't be painted over, or remodeled away, I will leave a mark of our family here. I'd like to do it within the home, but then I'll never be able to visit it. I don't have time to put our hands and names in fresh concrete. I could bury some token in the yard, but then what would happen when I tried to dig it up? Any writing on the exterior of the house could potentially be removed or weathered away. So I have decided to carve a "W" into the trunk of the Oak Tree next to the mailbox. Anything longer than a single letter might be too conspicuous and would be crossed out or covered over with other people's names or hearts or initials. Hopefully the annoying homeowners association will not permit anyone to cut down the tree unless it becomes diseased or dies. That tree was planted to last. I hope it will. And I hope that the little "W" will last as well. I cannot leave this house without a trace that we were here. Some new family will move in, and the house will become their home and will belong to them. But this little spot on the Oak Tree in the front yard, will belong to me forever. It will greet me as an old friend when I visit the spot where my home was. It will smile at me silently and remember when I loved it. I will never forget this place, and thanks to my little "W", it won't forget me either.