That’s it, our last day in this house. A house that felt like home since 2022. A place that saved us from our last rented home which didn’t turn out too well in the end. Convenient location, perfect size, space to make our own. And while we are moving on to bigger and better (hopefully), there is still a mourning process here. A loss. A change that will mean losing my hometown from May onwards. Changing shape, shedding skin, being transplanted…
So, if I may, let me mourn this place for a moment…
I graduated while living here. Studied here. Made my academic dream come true. We got married here, celebrating with family and friends with a bbq in this garden.
We nearly broke our necks on the loose floorboards by the kitchen sink! Lost earrings and hair clips and coins that disappeared into the ether. The flashing light in the kitchen that always glitched while you did the washing up.
How Joey would race around the living room when wet, trying to dry himself or outrun the feeling of wetness on his fur. The scratch marks and paw prints on the doors he jumped up. The many seizures Joey had here, breaking our hearts and scaring us in the early hours of the morning.
The love we made and shared all over this place. The arguments. The tears. The apologies. The empathy. The friendship. The joy. So much joy.
The mess, the clutter; the decluttering, the cleaning. Making plans, changing plans; setting goals, smashing goals. Resting after a days hard work with Brooklyn 99 or The Office for the hundredth time.
The times I’d watch Patrick mow the lawn while I read in my armchair, sipping a smoothie or a cup of tea. He took so much pride in doing it, making it neat for us, encouraging the neighbours to do the same. The neighbours who brought our bins over for us, took our missed parcels in for us, and shared laughs on dog walks with us.
All the glasses and bowls I broke here with my clumsy little hands!
Shaving my hair off here.
The nightmares and panic attacks that shook my body and mind here.
People watching outside the window. Neighbours fighting and yelling at all hours of the night. That one night we had to intervene when a neighbour got into an argument, only to discover the drunken girl had just found out her mother had cancer.
The bike rides around the town, feeling like kids again as we raced down the hill at full speed, wind in our hair, grins on our faces, not believing how weightless and free we could still feel at 30.
Snoozing alarm clocks and waking to each other’s alarms. His 6am runs or gym sessions before crawling back into bed with me. Me turning on the bedside light to read another chapter when I can’t sleep.
I started taking antidepressants here. And sleeping tablets. I healed and regressed and healed again here.
I created worlds here. Scribbled in margins and wrote until my hands ached and I felt breathless and I reached that aha moment of knowing I’d done it. Hundreds of thousands of words spilled out of me onto pages here.
Patrick’s many physical accomplishments, like his first Hyrox and first marathon. PBs and milestones, ups and downs. All while knowing that in victory or defeat, he was held by this place.
I became a yoga teacher here. Hundreds and hundreds of practices with Adriene, Charlie, Kassandra and Nike. Perfecting my posture, learning the true meaning of yoga, falling and laughing as I tried again.
I walked to work every day, often seeing my students walk the same path towards the school. Their area, my area. Kin. A knowing; a shared space; a familiarity; a singular home. There is nothing like kinship of a shared hometown. Especially a place like this with so much personality: warts and all.
The laughter from hosting friends and family here, crumbs embedded in the sofa from shared scones and cookies. Nieces and nephew crawling along our carpet and all too quickly walking it as they aged. Time and milestones laced within the carpet, the curtains, the skirting boards.
The broken blinds that broke a little bit more every time you opened and closed them. The water for the bath never getting above lukewarm. The lock on the bathroom door fell off. No room had the right amount of lighting or bulbs. But still, somehow, finding comfort in this place.
A broken, messy, dysfunctional home but a home nonetheless. One housing memories I’ll treasure forever. I mourn the loss of this place, those times, the person I was here, and the end of an era. I can only hope that I am half as lucky in the next place, the next chapter…
Sincerely,
S. xx
S. R. Crawford 