On Saturday, I went to retrieve the last of my "stuff" from my dad's house. It was sold and the official closing is just days away. I didn't exactly grow up here, but it was our family's first house. We moved in the spring of 1991, which was the summer between 8th grade and freshman year of high school. It was cool in a way because I got to start "new" and go to public school for the first time (it was Catholic school until then). It also kinda sucked because I didn't know anybody.
After high school, I began my Midwestern misadventures which brought me to Minnesota, then Ohio. Eventually, though, as an early 20-something in debt and brokenhearted, I came back to 86 Home Ave. At that point, my parents had divorced and it was known as "daddy's house."
Slowly, I got my shit together, paid my bills and met John. As luck would have it, the man who is now my husband lived about a half-mile from that house (also in debt and brokenhearted when we met). Our first date was at a Chinese restaurant two blocks away. Not too long after that August day, we got our first apartment. Again, about two blocks away.
Over the past few years, 86 Home Ave became a place to store boxes and celebrate the occasional holiday. I never really thought about it all that much. It was always there and somewhat taken for granted. A place for us kids to go when we couldn't quite make it on our own. Where there was always some kind of barking dog, or screeching birds, and more than enough Budweiser for everybody. Like every other place in this crazy world, good times were had there as well as bad.
While we were pulling away on Saturday, I couldn't help but get choked up a bit. I talked to "daddy" yesterday and he said he felt the same way.
"Life goes on," I said. "Yes, it does," he replied.