Hi friends -
This one is unrelated to writing but pertains to what’s going on in my life right now, which is: moving… again.
As an Air Force veteran and military spouse, I have moved a LOT.
10 times if you count the moves where I’ve set up a semi-permanent home somewhere… probably another handful if you count temporary living situations (3-6 month stints in deployed environments or in training).
As a 20-something year old, these moves meant only uprooting myself. And while, I’m certain I complained about it at the time, there was an element of excitement to it. A new assignment, a new country, a new adventure.
Now, with a family of four (soon to be five), moves have become increasingly complex as we are now uprooting our children each time too. Our son, for example, will live in his fifth home in 5 years next week. Our daughter will be 3 later this summer and will already be on her third home.
Today, my husband was in charge of loading up the u-Haul while I stayed at the house until the cleaners were finished. After I did a final walk-through, they took off, and I was left with the responsibility of locking up one final time and returning the keys to the property management company.
I expected to walk out the front door, lock it, stride to my car and drive off unceremoniously without a second glance. This particular assignment was one of the most difficult years of our lives.
Emotions ran high as a result of my husband’s multiple deployments, pushing us beyond our breaking points and forcing constant interruptions to our routines. The entire family came down with COVID after having avoided it for 2.5 years and pre-k served us with several other sicknesses that landed the kids in urgent care.
The house we lived in was beautiful from the outside. Built in 1959, it was stately and impressive with its noble, white columns reaching up to the roof from the brick front porch. In its heyday, it was probably the crown jewel of the neighborhood.
It was surrounded by gorgeous, green bushes. We had a magnolia tree in our front yard and our neighbor’s oak tree stretched its limbs over our driveway. Waking up in the morning in our upstairs master bedroom felt like living in a tree-house, as we were often awoken by birdsong. We had families of cardinals, squirrels and bunnies make their nests and homes in our backyard.
But for as much beauty as the house had on the outside, inside it was riddled with issues you’d expect from an older home. We averaged about one major maintenance issue per month and, as other military spouses can attest, they seemed to happen while my husband was away.
My son put his foot through a rotten wood board in the backyard before the owner finally directed the management company to remove the pergola (thank goodness he wasn’t hurt!).
We had mold and sewage problems, electrical issues, faulty caulking and plumbing, a leaky tub that dripped from the upstairs bathroom into the downstairs office, and most recently, an inoperable freezer and refrigerator.
For months leading up to this move, I looked forward to the day when we would leave the house forever.
Today was that day.
But instead of jumping for joy, I found myself walking through the house with a melancholic countenance. All of sudden the finality of what I was doing hit me like a Mack truck.
For all its faults, this was also the house in which our daughter transitioned from a baby crib to a big girl bed. She went from only being able to say a few words to speaking in full sentences. The creaky wooden floors were trampled upon by little feet chasing each other in and out of the closed concept floor plan. The front porch was the backdrop for our son’s first day of pre-k pictures.
This is the house in which we found the kindness of neighbors and care providers who welcomed us with open arms to the area even though they knew that their emotional investment in us would lead to heartbreak in one short year.
This house was the last to serve our family of four, as I am due after we move to our next duty location. Our baby girl will never the see the home in which I carried her in my womb. She will never pet the friendly stray cats that waited patiently outside our front door every morning for someone to fill their food bowls. She will never crawl on its floors or color on its walls.
Today, I left the house for the last time.
In a way, I am grateful for the knowledge. I knew as I walked around that every step I took was my last in that house. And when I shut the door for the final time, there was closure with it. When I reached my car, I looked back at the house and paused. I listened to the birds chirping and the wind as it rustled through the trees. I watched the South Carolina flag flap in the breeze. I wiped a tear, said goodbye, and started the engine.
I think it’s harder when something happens and you don’t know it’s the last time. When there’s no acknowledgment of the event because it felt so routine, you didn’t know it should be special.
The last time I saw my mom (that’s another story). The last time each of my kids nursed. The last time they said a word in their baby language before learning to say it correctly.
It makes me wonder about all the other moments which have slipped by without me noticing. And how many more are to come. I already know there will come a time when my son won’t want me to hold his hand crossing the road anymore. My daughter will outgrow carrying and sleeping with her beloved pink teddy bear. One day, I will put a newborn outfit on my baby girl for the last time.
Perhaps it’s best we don’t always know. As last times can be both a blessing and a curse.