Owen moved out on Saturday morning. The truck was full and he was driving away by 10 am. He was moved into his place by noon. I came home from helping out a bit at his place and I sat in the car.
I stopped. I needed to stop. I remembered Owen carrying me across the threshold when we bought the house. I remembered the friends and family that have come through the door. Carrying Gabriel’s crib in, and all the nursery furniture out. The times we have carried drywall and flooring through that door. My house is a home, part of that home was Owen.
Yesterday when I crossed the threshold the house was just mine.
The dog greeted me. The kitten sat on the newel post, just like he always has. Coda came around the corner. I told them it was ok, that I was home. Nothing had changed, not really. Most of the furniture is still here, I’ve moved books around to fill spaces from Owen’s, swapped out some photos. I moved my bedroom furniture around. Bought new and very feminine bedding. I have throw pillows on my bed (this is ridiculous because I never make my bed.)
I’ll throw a load of laundry in tonight. Shovel the walks. Change the cat litter. Make myself a sandwich for dinner. Do a bunch of studying.
I crossed a threshold in my own home yesterday. It’s still a place filled with love and care and hope. It’s still where I come when I am small and broken; it’s still where I put myself back together again. The house is still home. A different home, but still home.