On Monday we got a voicemail from our landlord informing us that he was going to sell the house. As a courtesy, he decided to check with us before he sold it to see if we would be interested in buying it. As a courtesy, he decided to check with us one day before he listed it.
Our house. Our lovely 1950's-era house, with its turquoise tiled kitchen and its wild Key West-inspired walls in the garage, with its odd little corner fireplace and its closet-size bathroom. Our odd little aging home, destined to become someone else's.
We've been plodding through the week with heavy hearts. We feel like we just caught up from the last move. After a grueling 14-hour drive from Virginia to our new house in Mass., we dragged ourselves into the empty living room and lay, exhausted, on the carpet. Just think, Derrick said, we won't have to do this again for four years.
It's almost funny now. Almost.
And so, with the expectation of having at least four years in our darling little rancher, we dug deep and let our roots grow. We tended the yard, pulling weeds, dreaming of the blueberry bushes we were going to plant along the fence. We bought a deep freezer for the garage, got the heating element in our aging '50s oven fixed, fixed up the bathroom. It wasn't ours, but it was. Our landlord lived so far away that we fixed everything ourselves. Just Derrick, me, and the dogs, in our own little cottage just outside of Boston. It was like a fairytale. It was like a dream.
And now it's over. It's not like we're unable to accept a new chapter in our lives; rather, it's that a chapter has been forcibly closed on us with out our consent. We don't want to start over. We don't want to find someplace new. We weren't ready for this door to close yet...and it was slammed in our faces.
So day by day, we're saying goodbye to our quirky little home. Slowly pulling away from our Boston dream house. Searching, desperately hoping something new--and better--and dog-friendly-- dogs-friendly--and commutable--with an oven that actually works--will turn up. A single family home with a decent commute in Boston. A house with a yard. A landlord that's okay with German Shepherds. A house in our price range.
Frankly, readers, it feels a little like looking for a damn one-eyed unicorn. But we'll move forward. Put one foot in front of the other. Pack up one box at a time. Not because we're exceptionally strong, cheerful, or determined. Because it needs to be done.
So we'll do it.
We've been slowly healing ourselves after the blow. We just moved eighteen months ago and now we're going to have to do it again. So we go out, do our errands, ogle over houses and neighborhoods. We come home, put on the oldies, and slowly shake off the blues while we cook. We stir the risotto and silently hate our stove. We stack the plates and silently hate our landlord. We simmer the broths, chop the garlic, whisk it all together to Suzie Q and Time of the Season. Just like we did in our apartment in Virginia. And I remember: as long as we have this. As long as we have these nights spent in the kitchen, singing the blues and dancing to Aretha and Otis Redding. As long as we have good music to dance to, good liquor to drink and good food to cook, we'll be just fine.
But lying in the dark Monday night, all I could think about was packing up our little house into a truck and driving away. And some part of me--buried beneath the can-do attitudes and the silver linings--some heavy, weighty part of me wanted to cry.