It's been put off twice, but the closing is now next Monday.
The 2019 flood forced me to take a realistic look at the possibility of living 20+ years alone in my 60's-80's on 2 1/5 acres with lots of trees and never ending yardwork. It forced me to consider why I needed to keep up a house that I frequently didn't even go into every room every week.
Reality is, if the survival in July and August with no air conditioning hadn't pushed me, I might still be there.
I raised my kids there.
I built my dreams there.
It was home---a feeling that doesn't happen in a minute but takes time. I had been there 6 years before I realized it was home--not just the place I lived but the place that was home in my dreams.
I moved out almost 2 years ago, and let a person needing a place stay there for the past year and a half since repairs were done. He/they wanted it, but a pandemic is not that good a time for socking away savings and repairing credit. When it became obvious that he/they couldn't buy it, I put it on the market.
It had 2 offers the first day.
A sales contract before the sign went up.
Life if weird.
But now, It's feeling both like it won't happen and like it's about to become like my grandmother's home and my parent's home---just a vague memory of something that may or may not have ever been real.
I've had a lump in my throat for days while trying hard to concentrate on finishing upgrades to the old house I bought for cash.
I may paint it many times. I still haven't finished any of them.
So long, Home---Next chapter.
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