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The yea-so pressure on the key turn for the lower front-door lock.
The morning light of a summer morning when I twirl the living room blinds.
Sitting at the glass-topped table in the kitchen with my morning coffee. Was it a table we bought at a furniture sale outside Boston?
How many cats lived with us over the years?
One son grew up in the house; the other visited every other week for year after year and then came to visit with his oldest son and wife decades later.
Ex-wives visited.
The list is endless; 31 years is a very long time.
My career in publishing, which I thought was being stalled when I moved from New York, took off while I lived in this house.
Grief had its own room.
As did the companionship that eventually made grief another passenger on this journey and not simply a highway robber to be avoided at all costs.
I learnt about aloneness versus loneliness.
I reflected on my role in every interaction. And sweeping my side of the street clean became second-nature. With that came some humility.
I swept and mopped the rooms today and locked the front door and walked down the steps for the last time.
My side of the street is clean — physically and metaphorically. I carry with me no secrets or shame. I have loved and been loved and will continue on that path.
No house has had this imprint on my life except for the house I grew up in, in Kolkata, where it’s been demolished. I ran away from that house. I say thank you to this one.
Lovely, Amit. All the best as you take this next big step!
Just wonderful
I don’t have to strain to hear the gratitude – it comes through loud and clear. Thanks for sharing such a tender moment with the world.
Amit, this is absolutely beautiful and so poignant. You have captured so much in very few words. Thank you for sharing this. I know that much meaning also awaits in your new home.