I have been thinking about posting on here lately. I just haven't known where to start or what to write. Then about 10 minutes ago one of my lifelong best friends and her sister drove by my childhood home and snapped a picture and posted it to my facebook wall. It rocked my world. It instantly had me sobbing.
The memories in this home are countless. It is the very last place that my family was whole. It is the last place I saw my brother Mike. It is the last place I lived before we moved to the desert, 110 miles away. I lived here from the time I was five years old until I was 21. It's not a fancy home, it's not bad either. It's a simple home that a wonderful family lived in.
I learned how to ride my bike right there on that sidewalk. I sat in the living room looking out that front window waiting for my friends to pick me up as a teenager. That window is also where our Christmas tree sat year after year. Those high tension wires behind the house were where my brother, his friends and sometimes my cousin would climb. My girlfriend, (the one who took the picture) and I would sit in that front yard and wait for pizza to be delivered from the cute pizza delivery boys.
I could go on and on, the memories are countless. I love that I lived in the same house for so long. I love that so many of my friends can still drive by that house and remember being there with me. It was the only home they only knew for me. Moving to the other side of the country has made me appreciate the familiarity of home. It has made me realize what I had. I had a comfort zone. Sometimes it makes me sad that my kids won't have that. That we have owned and lived in so many different homes. Now we are renting and we know this more than likely won't be home forever. I hope that my kids remember all the places we have lived. The heart and soul that were in those houses. I hope that they can look at pictures of those homes and get the same feeling I get when I look at this one.
Home. It's a wonderful place, isn't it?