The home I’ve raised my boys in is only a couple of miles from where I grew up. I know the area like the back of my hand. Our house is only a block away from where my grandma used to live. Sometimes I close my eyes and try my hardest to see if I can remember ever seeing our house as a little girl. There isn’t a memory.
It’s interesting how a home feels and becomes so dear.
Our backyard leads out to a field and cemetery, so we have much more privacy and quiet. The robins love to hop around our grass, and I swear all the neighborhood squirrels find their way here every morning to play tag. I love our little piece of land and our little house with our little bedrooms.
Being here reminds me of all the times I’ve found my moments.
This was where I brought home my first son. This was where I went into labor with his brothers. This is where I wept when I lost our second baby. This is where I wept when my husband lost his job. This is where we’ve had multiple new, glorious beginnings. This is where everything has begun and continues for us.
Home is precious. We have a peony bush in our backyard that appeared out of nothing the first spring we lived here. I remember seeing the pink blossoms and feeling giddy with excitement. It was all new to me; the quirks of our home were something I was only beginning to learn that first year. Every spring that bush comes back, and every spring it makes me smile. A sweet surprise.
There’s other memories that hit me right in the feels. Like whenever I switch on the lamp on my bedside table, I’m immediately taken back to sleepless nights with newborns. The way the light hits the walls. The way the warmth covers my pillow. It transports me back to those moments with babies, crying, and waking & sleeping as the moon kept us company.
I know that our time here is dwindling. Our needs are different, and soon we’ll need to relocate to accommodate them. But until then, I want to relish in this land. In this place. In the memories. In finding the moments that matter most.