We first saw this house some time in the summer of 2004. We were on our weekly outing to see open houses, and we happened upon this one at the tail end of a very hot July Sunday. But it was pink and there were lots of people around and we just didn't have the energy to get out one more time in the oppressive heat for a pink house.
Then, a few weeks later (on my birthday, actually), the house was open again with a new, lower price. We decided to take a chance on the little pink house in a great neighborhood. As soon as we walked in and saw the arch between the living and dining rooms, we both knew.
We had walked into Our House.
Six weeks later, it really was Our House. In the next two years, we painted walls and tore down paper and changed light fixtures and put our touches on nearly every surface. Often, when we would pull into the driveway, I would grab Anthony's hand and tell him in an almost desperate tone, "I love our little house." We talked and laughed and fought and planned everything in this little no-longer-pink house. I know that it's only been two years, but I sort of thought we'd live here forever. I love this house. I love the crappy floor in the bedroom and the old metal cabinets in the kitchen. I love the built-in shelves in the dining room. I love the floor in the little bathroom and the red shutters on the outside. I love that my dad scraped and re-glazed every single window. I love the colors and the layout and the way that from the moment we first stepped inside, it felt like home.
And today, in just two hours, I will go rent a truck and we will pack up our belongings and leave this little cottage. The past two weeks, I have packed and cried and relived a lifetime of memories I thought we'd be making here.
Instead, we will be making those memories in another house, in another town, in another state. That house will be fine and will be ours and will be Our House and Our Home.
But it will never be the little pink house.
Then, a few weeks later (on my birthday, actually), the house was open again with a new, lower price. We decided to take a chance on the little pink house in a great neighborhood. As soon as we walked in and saw the arch between the living and dining rooms, we both knew.
We had walked into Our House.
Six weeks later, it really was Our House. In the next two years, we painted walls and tore down paper and changed light fixtures and put our touches on nearly every surface. Often, when we would pull into the driveway, I would grab Anthony's hand and tell him in an almost desperate tone, "I love our little house." We talked and laughed and fought and planned everything in this little no-longer-pink house. I know that it's only been two years, but I sort of thought we'd live here forever. I love this house. I love the crappy floor in the bedroom and the old metal cabinets in the kitchen. I love the built-in shelves in the dining room. I love the floor in the little bathroom and the red shutters on the outside. I love that my dad scraped and re-glazed every single window. I love the colors and the layout and the way that from the moment we first stepped inside, it felt like home.
And today, in just two hours, I will go rent a truck and we will pack up our belongings and leave this little cottage. The past two weeks, I have packed and cried and relived a lifetime of memories I thought we'd be making here.
Instead, we will be making those memories in another house, in another town, in another state. That house will be fine and will be ours and will be Our House and Our Home.
But it will never be the little pink house.
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