I’m sitting at our dining room table in Illinois, and the sunlight is slanting through the windows onto the wall where a favorite print used to live. The moving truck comes tomorrow to move the rest of our furniture to Indiana, and we close on the sale of the house on Thursday. So this is the last night we’ll spend in the house that we moved into in 2003 (before we were married, or even engaged!).
I’m a little sad. Not because we’re facing the end of the long-distance commuting (on and off for most of the 10 years we’ve been together), but because all around me in this house are things we’ve worked on together – putting in a fab garden, stripping the woodwork (ok, that was mostly the husband), refinishing the floors, painting the inside and out. The bushes and trees are bigger now than when we first moved here, that’s for sure. The house fits us – I guess, fit us – and while our new house will grow to fit us, I’m going to miss being here.
I know by the end of the week the prospect of really having no more long-distance commuting and both of us living in a sum-total of ONE HOUSE will have wiped away this regretful feeling. But for the last night we spend here, in our first house together, I can be a little sad.