Moving
I've lived in the same house for my entire life. I grew up living with my mom, older brother, and grandparents. Growing up, our house was always the family home, the place where family would gather for the holidays and family get-togethers or reunions. These were my favorite moments because the house was always so lively and full of love. There were always the most wonderful smells filling the house: a freshly brewed pot of coffee, a pie baking in the oven, freshly made bowls full of popcorn ready for movie or board game nights. A house packed full of people sat around the TV in the living room, with the giant picture windows letting the sun stream in during the day. The rooms filled with laughter and conversation. The chaos of screaming little cousins running and playing throughout the hallways and rooms.
I think back as far as I can remember to when I lived downstairs and shared a room with my mom. A room right next to my brothers in our seemingly huge and never-ending basement. A basement all the little cousins were scared of at the time, me included. Running up the stairs as fast as I could after turning the lights off was my biggest challenge at the time. It felt impossible so many times. I remember the room upstairs we called the "playroom," filled to the brim with toys, haphazardly strewn across the floor and stacked along the walls. That's where I spent most of my time whenever I wasn't curled up on my bed reading a Percy Jackson book or running around outside climbing trees and playing with sticks. I remember creating the most chaotic and imaginative storylines I could possibly think of to play with my brother, combining our toys into worlds of fantasy and all things only a child's mind could imagine.
Soon I grew out of my bed, though, and wanted my own room and my own private space to be in. So, the playroom was cleaned out and became my bedroom. I moved upstairs away from my mom and brother and had my first space to call my own and leave my mark on. I grew too old for toys; I started middle school at a real school (I had been homeschooled beforehand), and soon my free time was devoted to other things. Getting good grades was one of my biggest worries. During this time my house became a third space. Where most of my time was now spent at school or studying at the library, I came home for dinner and to sleep. I think this is when I started taking my house for granted. My mom had gotten a new job by this time, and we were all busy. Time for climbing trees or Nerf battles around the house with my brother became distant memories. Priorities changed, and I grew up. Holidays remained, though, which is something I grew to deeply appreciate. Holidays became the one time when the house was filled with laughter and joy, and worries from school and jobs faded away from everyone's minds. When our house still brought everyone together.
High school came around, and the walls of my room started to feel as small as they ever had. I dedicated even more of my time to my studies. The local library moved and was modernized, and I stopped visiting during my study time. I would come home to study, or study at my friends' places. I went more often; now it was nearly every day. There was always something to do, whether it was after-school sports, club meetings, hanging out with friends, or even work at Culver's or Panera Bread. I gradually spent less and less time at home. In January 2020 my grandma passed away. The house became quieter then. Perhaps that's a reason why I threw myself into school after the COVID-19 restrictions had passed and I was able to seek out social interactions again. I craved having people around me at all times. I missed the noise my house and childhood were once full of and could no longer stand the silence.
Starting college in August 2024 was the biggest change that I had to adjust my life around. Commuting was difficult especially while feeling thrown into a whole new routine. I stopped thinking about anything else really besides college. I was just happy to get in and to be able to throw myself into my studies again. As one can imagine, commuting to college every day had me spending even less time at home than in high school. My studies had only gotten more difficult and required even more time than middle and high school. In my second year of university, I decided to move into an apartment with three of my first-year friends. Some days I regret this choice, and I wish I had stayed only to be closer to family. I wish I didn't take time for granted so often. On the morning of June 1st, 2026, my grandfather passed away in his room upstairs next to mine. Thankfully, I got to be home that week and be there for that moment. These past few months have honestly passed by in a flash of family coming and going, the funeral, my third year of school starting, and my mom organizing an estate sale.
I'm sitting here now and looking around at the living room full of boxes. My grandfather's jokes and my grandmothers disgruntled responses no longer filling the space. It's so quiet now. In a space so cluttered with more things than I could ever imagine were kept, and could fit in this house, the space still somehow feels so empty. Desolate. I will miss this house so much. More so, I will miss the home it used to be for me and so many others. After all, a home is wherever you make it.
-Anonymous
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