Restless farewell

The last bag is loaded into the car and as it rumbles heavily I can’t help but feel this pungent bereavement. I turn around to look at the magic house that stands before me. As I walk back down that beaten path, all my senses seem to take on a life of their own; they must know that things are about to change.

With a gentle shove the door nods open. Its brass handle has only slightly dulled ever since I can remember. As I glide into the magic house, high on nostalgia, I feel like I would do almost anything to turn back time.

Each room rife with memories, each nook and crack in the wall a well-etched anecdote. The kitchen where simple meals felt like banquets because they meant being with family, my bedroom where I'd nurse a frequently broken heart, my bathroom where I had found solace from the unnerving changes my body went through over the years; where I was rid of physical, and more importantly, mental dirt.

I climbed onto the ledge outside my room and onto the roof. Just being there threatens to plummet me into useless reminiscence. The tarnished roof tiles, probably the only ones that will ever know me the way I do. I sat me down and lay back, I owed them at least that much. Mattresses worth millions could never relax my frayed nerves the way this ruddy roof always did.

My memories are blurred - like a montage in rapid motion - just flashes of colour, peals of laughter and the hollow moaning of remorse dancing before my seasoned eyes. I must shake off this feeling now because I'm afraid I might not be strong enough to do what is needed…I must pry myself away from the magic house.

I climb down the roof mechanically and quickly make my way down to the front door, latching it almost urgently. The porch, on which I sat a thousand evenings and watched the world go by, seems to mourn my departure.

The magic house is me, it is larger than I'll ever be, older than I'll ever be, more permanent than I'll ever be, but me. As I walk away from it, I'm walking away from a glorious past, a perfect past.

Without a backward glance I get into the car and make my way into uncertainty.