I’ve spent some time over the past couple days digging through my childhood home. My parents are moving (for several reasons) and this week is the last time I’ll be in that house. I haven’t been overly emotional about it, which is a miracle, but there have been a few moments of fond remembering.
Like looking at the front door where Dave and I had our first kiss.
Or finding photos of my siblings and myself that show how close we were.
I am fine with leaving this house, but I’m not nearly ready to let go of the memories.