My parents bought (well down payment) the house I was raised in back in 1963. Built that year, roughly same style as others on the block with minor variations here and there. Remodeled and expanded in 1980. We, as does anyone, grew up, grew older, and moved out. My mother was the last to say goodbye last Friday; signed papers and handed over keys to the real estate agent to prepare to put it on the market. Our home, 1963-2025.
I feel a weird sense of disconnect, of loss, even though I haven’t lived there for nearly 30 years and have a home of my own now. It’s not the physical and legal separation in that I can no longer go back there without trespassing but that I no longer have a physical grounding to the home base of my childhood and teenage memories.
And it really makes me feel…old.