Growing up I was lucky that I never had to move as a child. Perks of being the daughter of a farmer, moving isn’t normally in the cards. This place will always be my true home and I am grateful that ever time I leave I know it isn’t goodbye forever. I love the way the cherry trees bloom in the spring and the how the apples trees smell in the fall. I love the anticipation of turning out our long gravel driveway and knowing that I am almost home.
However since I have been 18, I have moved twice every year. I have become an expert at moving. I have a very tried and true packing system. I have also learned just how easily I become attached to the places I call home.
There is something heart wrenching about see the place that you use to call home, empty and unrecognizable from the place you came to love as your home. It is if all the memories you have there, all of the adventures, all of the growing, all of the nights you stayed up late trying to figure out what it meant to BE in this life, are just gone. Washed away in the bare walls and the empty cupboards. It just gets me every time. I walk through to say my final goodbyes and replay the best moments. Then I see the empty rooms as erased memories and I just cry. I am not sure if I am weird or normal for doing this, but I have always been a bit of sentimental sap about these things.