Leaving Behind Precious Memories

It is just across the street, down the block, four houses away. One-hundred and sixty-four steps from our old house to our new.

And I thought that would make moving easy. . . .

The logistics will be simpler. No moving van, just a human conveyor belt, neighbors and friends passing furniture and boxes along.

But the emotional toll is a heavy burden, whether you move 100 miles or 100 steps.

Is there really any easy way to step away from your past, to kiss your memories goodbye without pain?

*

The giant sycamore in our front yard has never looked prettier, rising majestically into the sky, gracing our lawn with shade from its broad, green leaves.

In recent years it had been ravaged by disease. No matter the season, the ground was littered with its puny, shriveled leaves.

But this summer--untended, unexpectedly--it recovered and burst forth vibrant and green . . . almost mocking our decision to leave.

And now, suddenly, I am stung by all the little things I will miss when we’re gone, the scents and sounds that made this house our home.

The tune that wafted through our windows from our neighbors’ wind chimes. The sweet smell of orange blossoms from our backyard fruit trees. The night songs of mockingbirds just outside.

The new house will have its own charms, I’m sure. But as I’m lulled to sleep by familiar melodies, I am seized by a sense of loss and longing. And I wonder whether the same songbirds sing across the street.

*

My children, too, feel pangs of separation, as we edge closer to moving day.

It is no longer “Clean your room” that I’m asking, but “Clear away all traces of the person you’ve been.”

Some things are painlessly removed; to be re-posted across the way: The ‘N Sync poster, the horseback-riding awards, the pictures from graduation day.

But some are destined for separation: The white desk passed down from sister to sister, too rickety now to survive a move; the shelves Mommy built to hold their soccer trophies; the flowered window curtains they helped me make.

One night I pass my teenage daughter’s bedroom and find her on her knees, studying the messages penciled on her wallpaper, over its rainbows-and-clouds motif.

“Please God, Have me do really good at basketball tryouts.

“Please God, Don’t let anything bad happen to Mommy on her business trip. Please bring her home safe.

“Thank you God, for having my haircut turn out so pretty. Please help it to stay that way while I sleep. I love you always.”

Over the years, she covered her wall with prayers, chronicling her secret hopes, pleasures and fears.

But her wallpaper will stay when we leave; it shreds when we try to remove it. And it hurts to lose this link to her memories, to the child she used to be.

I try to comfort her. We are lucky, I say. We will be only steps away. And the new owners seem like such nice people, I’m sure they’ll let us come by to visit.

She nods, but there are tears in her eyes as she whispers, “Don’t let them change anything, Mommy. OK?”

*

I look around as we prepare to leave and wonder what changes the new owners will bring.

I think back to a day a few years before, when another family trying to recapture the past knocked on our front door.

It was a woman my age, daughter in tow. The mother had grown up in this house and was off in college when her family moved away. Now she was back in town for a visit.

Would I mind, she asked, if she wandered through?

I got out of their way and let them in. And tried not to take personally the disappointment in her voice as she showed her daughter all the changes the new owners had made.

“What do you expect, Mom,” her daughter said, exasperated. “It’s only been 100 years.”

Not a hundred maybe, but long enough for things to change. I thought of all the times I’ve driven by my own old house, cringing at the hideous green awnings and the shrubbery that replaced the pansies in my garden.

But what did I expect? It’s been 13 years since we moved away from that first house.

The house I’m leaving now was my dream home back then, with its big front yard, sunny rooms, climbing tree.

But things change. . . . Children are born, a husband dies, the walls close in. A tree grows so tall, it turns sun to shade.

Still, it won’t be easy, watching from across the street as new owners erase our past, paper over our history. Because we may have outgrown the dream, but we’ve not yet learned how to untangle ourselves from old memories.

*

Sandy Banks can be reached via e-mail at [email protected].