An Ode to Letting Go

After spending a week packing and preparing to put on the market the home I grew up in, I sit on my front porch one last time and watch the cool summer wind blow recklessly against the large Oak trees that hang over the street. Summer shadows aren't happening today. A storm is coming.

I think about letting go, how very rarely is it what you're letting go of, but rather, what it once meant. It was watching my dad blasting Pink Floyd in his old black and white flannel, BBQing on our old back porch, knowing at the end of the night, he'd be there, by my mom's side to tuck me in, to swat away the monsters, and to tell me he loves me.

It was the haunted houses my dad built in our garage, the tire swing, the snow forts and tiny ice skating rinks. It was waking up Christmas morning with both my parents and never imagining it would be any different. It was our old blue Oriental rug that I laid on next to my brother Mike while I fed him chocolate milk and watched Annie over and over and over again and he was always right there by my side.

It was counting down the seconds until my latest crush rang the door bell and crying in my friends arms each time my little heart got broken and thinking that I finally understood what eternity felt like. It was tea parties with my mom in the yard people think is not big enough to invest in today. It was looking out our kitchen window at freshly brewed sun tea, cherry blossoms blooming in the backdrop while my mom made finger sandwiches with the crust cut off.

It was falling asleep in my mom's bed to Moonstruck while my dad was away on business. She would put my tiny feet between her thighs to keep them warm. And by her side beneath the ceiling people now say are "just too low," I felt safe.

It was staring up at the moon and howling at it, hoping my cousin Joey might hear me all the way from California. It was lemonade stands where I fought with Jana and followed her home and at the end we both cried.

It was love and hope and innocence, it was the home I still remember today.
But this is no longer my home and this is the last time I will ever sit on this front porch and be able to think about the things that can make me laugh and cry at once. This is letting go.