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Saying Goodbye to My First Home

My father passed away fifteen years ago this month. My mother's health has been declining and she will be moving out of the house that I was raised in.  My siblings, who still live nearby, are coordinating the sale (and are just in the beginning stages).

I was born in 1961 and didn't get my own place (aside from a university dorm) until 1983, so this was my home for almost a third of my life. The memories are of the people I grew up with more so than the building itself. When I was small and agile it seemed big; now that I am old and clumsier it seems crowded to walk through without knocking something over.

Since then I've had homes (only one of them a house) in New Haven, Brooklyn, Chapel Hill, Pittsburgh (a suburb called Turtle Creek), and Carrboro. The memories of the homes themselves fade more quickly than I expected that they would; it's always been the memories of the people who were part of my life that I have held on to.

I keep expecting some twinge at the thought of no longer being able to visit my first home but my concerns over my mother's health predominate, leaving no room for that kind of nostalgia.

I try not to be materialistic. This may be one of the signs that I have been at least partially successful.

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