Yesterday I stood just beyond those french doors in the dining room that currently holds a refrigerator and 247 yard sale plates….
….and thought about the time I told this dining room goodbye.
Six years ago my mother sold this home.
On the day of closing, I was the last one out of the house. We had spent days cleaning out every bit of us from the house. We pulled down dusty boxes from the attic and packed up old maps and pictures and letter jackets and vintage Monopoly games and my grandmother’s china and a red tricycle and shoeboxes full of dried homecoming mums.
The house was empty.
The rooms echoed.
The spaces were silent and still.
I stood in the middle of the house and cried.
I slowly walked from room to room telling them all goodbye.
I told the kitchen it was amazing and I’d miss the hot chocolate and the caroling parties and the after-school dates with my boyfriend. I told the dining room that Thanksgiving wouldn’t be the same anymore and that all those turkey dinners with extra cranberry bread had been amazing. I told the living room that I’d think of it when I watched the Real Housewives of wherever.
I waved goodbye to the bedrooms and the upstairs landing and the staircase and the bottom step where I waited for Santa Claus.
And as I walked to the back door to open it for the last time, I stepped into the downstairs bathroom to say my goodbye.
I stood on the cold tile floor and stared into the mirror over the sink.
The mirror I’d looked into to put my red lipstick on before high school.
The mirror I’d checked my glued-on plaid bows on my sweater vest before my first date with my boyfriend who became my husband.
The mirror I’d stood in front of on my wedding day in my wedding dress.
It was all too much.
It was all too hard.
I literally couldn’t take it for ONE SINGLE MORE SECOND.
And so I did the only thing a super-despondent-about-to-leave-the-house-forever-kind-of-girl does when faced with all of that sadness.
I grabbed the mirror off the wall and ran out of the house and put it in the back of the car….
….and drove it back to Kentucky with me.
When I got home, my husband carried the mirror upstairs and put it into the attic.
And there it sat for years, gathering dust.
It never really had a place at Thistlewood.
It wasn’t its home.
Until the day we bought the house back.
We carried that mirror down from the attic and drove it to Texas and hung it right back where it was meant to be.
I stood in the bathroom and wiped away a bit of the dust covering the front of the mirror and smiled at my reflection.
My mirror and I were a little older.
A little dustier.
A little more worn around the edges.
But we were both still wearing our red lipstick.
And we were both finally home. 🙂
PS If you’ve been following along with the renovations, this is the bathroom from the diagram.
And right where that door was?
There’s now a shower. 🙂
PPS If you open up your mailbox and see a gift guide mailer that looks like this.
Be sure and open to page four to see a face smiling at you.
It’s just me.
Hoping you’ll smile back. 🙂