I watched the final parcel being loaded into the pickup truck and quelled the feeling to jump into the truck and unload everything. All the furniture had been carefully wrapped in sheets and newspapers while our personal belongings had been carefully stored in large boxes. I turned back to look at my home that now belonged to someone else. It seemed surreal knowing that the place I had called home for the last thirty years would no longer be home.
I had grown up in this house and every room was flooded with gargantuan memories. The walls had seen both joyful and tragic moments. It was the one place where I felt most at ease. There was a comfort in its familiarity; the constant hum of the refrigerator, the occasional noises from the neighbours’ children, the soft blue colour of the walls in my bedroom. It had seen me full of pride when I wore my graduation robe and it had also seen me break down when I realized that we were bankrupt. With a large financial crisis looming over my head the sensible but painful recourse was to sell our house and settle the bank loans and bills.
I walked one last time through all the rooms in the house. Without the curtains and furniture, the rooms looked empty and forlorn as though begging to have everything restored the way it was before. Every nook and corner was reminiscent of my past. I stood in the empty space where the kitchen table used to be. Memories of freshly baked biscuits and birthday cakes came back. As far back as I could remember, every year I had cut my birthday cake at our kitchen table.
I looked at our living room where so many evenings had been spent in front of the television with my parents. I wondered if another house would feel like home again. When my parents had gifted me our family home, it had been one of the happiest days of my life. Selling it had been one of the most painful decisions I’d ever made. I glanced around one last time and then walked out. What had to be done was done and no one can live their life looking back.