losing a piece of my past, gaining closure

I don't think everyone understands what it's like to lose your childhood home.

As the situation currently stands, it is every bit of bittersweet. Our family split after many tumultuous years and heartache, and it was finally time to move on. A young Mennonite couple purchased it, hoping for a place full of character with land to raise their two-year-old girl and possibly future additions to their family.

I visited the house earlier this year to say goodbye. I thought I would have a tough time with that visit, but surprisingly I was content with the parting. Today, with the selling of the house, I am having a much more difficult time than I thought I would.

Hearing my mom talk about her conversation with the new couple--where we keep our extra key hidden in the loose rock of the barn, or where to stash the glass Ball jars for canning--caused me to bite back tears.

It is the only home my sister has ever known; it has been my home since age four until a few years ago. Cloud watching near the garden, or impromptu picnics on the hill in early spring, sledding and campfires, warm nights with the sounds of bullfrogs in the pond and the train nearby heard through open windows. Spending time near the barn using a hammer and a small chisel to chip the ground away from rocks, pretending I was a paleontologist digging up a dinosaur bone. Family gatherings at Thanksgiving and backyard badminton, until things got bad.

Picking my way through the woods of ferns, leaf hummus, small beech trees, tall white pines and hemlock, hopping from rock to rock in the stream until I found my favorite--a small boulder rounded off to permit rather comfortable seating arrangements. I used to sit there for hours, writing poetry, listening to the stream dance its way down towards the town of Fleetwood nearby. This place--Willow Stream, our two-acre forest--is the reason I began my career in the natural sciences. I will never see my muse again.

"Did you tell them about the woods on the other side of the stream?" I asked my mom twice, just to be sure. "They need to know about the woods..."