As of last week, we’ve officially sold our old home, the place we lived for nearly seventeen years, the duration of my whole current career. Now we can fully, 100% live in our new home in a new city and state; and processing this move is quite an interesting, reflective and ongoing set of moments.

As I navigate our new home, I think a lot about the old one. We really loved that house. We had remodeled it, making the kitchen just what we wanted and enjoying it tremendously. It’s a little hard to leave it, and now all we have are memories of so many mornings making coffee there, talking, cooking. I hope the new owner appreciates how smoothly the drawers close, how warm the big butcher block counter is amid the tile and countertops, and how the sun changes throughout the day. I hope they appreciate the urban trail entry path, just across the street, and the way the wide east-west street gives them views of sunrise and sunsets.

We landscaped the backyard with a garden and native plants, and installed a cable rail so that we could see the whole yard from the porch. We passed so many hours out there, watching starlings, ravens, nuthatches; and at dusk, bats would emerge against the pale, darkening sky.

It’s where we brought our baby home, and watched her grow to a teenager.

The memories are endless, really. Moving closes one story and starts another, but they’ll always be tightly linked, more continuous than discrete. Let’s put down new roots.