Today I moved my wedding china to my new house. My downsized house. The not-family home.
Twenty-three years ago we bought our family home. It is/was/has been my dream home. It is a living work of art. A mid-century modern house built in 1962, the year of my birth. It is me.
Do you have a favorite something? A dress, a tool, a cooking utensil, a pair of shoes, a painting. Can you imagine living inside of that thing for 23 years? Do that. And then, imagine moving out of that beautiful shell. The new shell is beautiful, but it is not unique, it is not an extension of your soul.
I don’t even love my love anymore. Its upkeep is beyond me. It is too big. It is a too-demanding lover. The affair is over.
But I’ll never get over the echoes. This house was built for someone else, but it has been MY house. My children have never lived anywhere else. Who can say that in this day and age? I committed. I put my soul into this place. I found its architect. I followed him. It is my piece of art. And it is going away, going to someone else.
And I am going to generic architecture. It fits me better. It will be fine. But it is not art. It is, well, housing.
Had I made this move with Adam it would be fine. We’d talked about doing this very thing when the kids left: getting a smaller place in Durham and a better place at the beach. Of course the better beach place won’t happen but the Taj is awesome, if small, so, that’s how it is.
Despite my sad nostalgia I am incredibly grateful that I am financially able to make this move, to be secure, to have a life beyond paying for my house. For all of this I am indebted not only to my fabulous late spouse, but to my at-least-as-fabulous finanical advisor. Get one if you don’t have one.