Yesterday, I closed the sale of my beloved home and moved
into an apartment. I had never
intended to sell my home, but nearly a year ago, several circumstances
conspired that made it necessary for me to sell it.
I wrestled with the loss for a long time before putting my
home on the market. For me, my home
was everything. I loved it so
much. It was the place to feel settled and content and where I felt I
belonged. I cried for months. And months. And then, I cried for a few
more months. Nothing would stop
the crying… except traveling.
When I traveled, I felt terrific. I felt solid, stable,
confident, light hearted and just like my regular self.
Then, I would come home, and cry
again! I started to dread coming home.
As the time to move out drew near, I had to find an
apartment. One Saturday morning, I
went online, found one apartment, called up the leasing office, visited and
signed the lease.
The apartment was nothing like my home. It felt like a
four-star hotel, and that’s what I liked about it. If I felt good while traveling, maybe I would feel better
living in a place that felt more like a hotel rather than trying to replace my
home. “It feels like The
Fairmont,” I would tell people, matter-of-factly.
A week before moving out, in-between tears, my friend asked
me for my new address, noting that my unit was Unit F. I hated that it was F. After all those tears, why couldn’t it be
A? Or, at least B+? But F?!
“F is for Forward,” she said.
“It is?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said. “And, Free and Fun and Fabulous.”
“And Fantastic and Family and Feminine and Feisty!” I added.
“Exactly!” she acknowledged.
“Oh, Faaaaank
you!” I sighed.
Maybe things would be okay, after all.
Yesterday, after the movers had moved everything out of my
home, I went back to do a final clean up of my home and leave my key locked
inside for the new owner. I braced
myself for what I expected would be a torrent of tears.
As a last momento, I bravely took a picture and waited for
the tears.
And, I waited.
But… nothing.
“Huh,” I thought.
I looked around the room and realized, “This isn’t my
home. This is just a boring, empty
place.”
I left my key inside, picked up the last of the mail that
had arrived that day, closed the door with the key inside and skipped down the
steps, taking my home with me and happy to be free of the tears.
Sorting through the mail on the way to my car, I found a
postcard. From The Fairmont.
“Of course,” I thought as I rolled my eyes.
“F is for Fairmont!”
© 2012 Lisa Ann Edwards
p.s. You can’t make this stuff up. Here’s a picture of the postcard from The Fairmont.
