Turn Out The Lights.

The house that I sit inside as I write this long overdue post is the one and only geographical constant I've had in my life. My Grandmother bought it shortly before I was born in 1973, and I've been wandering these halls for 33 years straight. We sold it recently, and are out of here lock, stock and barrel on July 31st. It finally sank in today when I met the new owners and overheard some of their renovation plans - and I suppose I'm sad this evening. Finally.

The last 5 years or so, as my Grandmother's health and mind have deteriorated, the house has been more of a headache than anything anyone wants to be remotely nostalgic about. I watched the new owner's children run around in the backyard today, and get excited about the dark ravine I used to know like the back of my hand. I looked out the patio doors at the run down pool that we've spent hundreds of dollars keeping functional this summer and can almost see one of my parent's late night parties that used to take place this time of year - 20 years ago. I'm not going to get out of here at the end of this week without at least a little tug at the heartstrings.

There's my Grandfather helping me put together my Death Star during Christmas 1977. I can almost picture my beloved Planet of the Apes playhouse down where it stood in the basement. The obligatory driveway hand prints from 1987 are eroded but discernible. Last night I slept in the room I lived in for the summer of 1996 when I was at University and washing windows in the next town over.

The dining room table which used to be the epicenter of the house is now quiet, and will be moved to my new apartment come the fall. 10 minutes ago my father decided he didn't want the Grandfather clock and that'll go to me too. Janet's got dibs on the old kitchen table. Life will go on, obviously, but a more crystal-clear end to an era you'll never find - and I'll have a sniffle if I want to.