Our house in the city of St. Louis resembled a gingerbread house. I bought it when I landed my first grown-up job out of college at Anheuser-Busch. It possessed unique features that have become increasingly rare. A flight of 12 steps led to a front porch, granting entry to a century-old abode adorned with a large front porch and exquisite woodwork throughout. This house became the backdrop for numerous dinner parties, birthday celebrations, and the passage of family members who have since departed. So much life unfolded within those walls while we called it home.
Living in that St. Louis city house for 17 years created a profound sense of familiarity. However, as the time approached to bid farewell, nostalgia didn't dominate as one might expect. Surprisingly, I felt a sense of detachment, a recognition that it was simply time to move forward. The days, weeks, and months that follow may elicit a deeper emotional response, but as we drove away, the place I had called home for so long didn't pull at my heartstrings.
The neighbors, dear friends cultivated over those 17 years, will be missed. Life unfolded within those walls, and time marched forward. I bought that house before meeting my husband or imagining the existence of such a significant person in my life. Life has a way of surprising us, and now, I cannot fathom existence without him.
The house, once a perfect fit for the younger version of myself with dreams and plans that have evolved, no longer feels like home. Despite its charming features – stained glass windows and 2-inch thick solid oak hardwood floors – the numerous stairs became an inconvenience.
The 30-year-old who bought that house could not have imagined trading it for a single-level ranch home in St. Charles. Yet, here I am, unable to comprehend how I coped with stairs, especially when it came to tasks as mundane as doing laundry. The prospect of stairs to the laundry seems unimaginable now, especially considering the challenges of the past six months battling illness.
As Lao Tzu wisely stated, "Those who have knowledge, don’t predict. Those who predict, don’t have knowledge." This sentiment resonates with my current state of mind. My sister, who moved from the city earlier, shared that the waves of sadness after leaving took time to surface. Perhaps, in my post-Covid recovery and amidst the process of selling the house, a clearer understanding and a more profound sense of nostalgia will emerge.
Nostalgia, it seems, requires the cleansing effects of time and distance. It needs to be stripped of the practicalities of life, like stairs and illness, to become a pure and sentimental reminiscence. As I embark on this new chapter, I anticipate that the emotional connection to my former home will evolve, shaped by the passage of time and the distance created by change.
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