Nine days short of one year since my mom had her stroke. My childhood home has been on the market for six months, I've had to pay all the utilities, taxes, insurance, and upkeep - I should be relieved to let it go. But I'm so deeply sad.
Today I pack. Tomorrow morning I leave for Chicago, from which I will drive to Galesburg, Illinois. I'm going to walk through the house my parents owned for 61 years one last time, then on Wednesday is the sale closing. I want to go put flowers on my parents' grave - hope I can find it in the snow. I want to eat at Steak 'n Shake. Wednesday night I have dinner with my nieces. At least they are on Facebook, so I won't totally lose them forever. But aside from them, there is no reason I should ever visit Galesburg again. There's nothing for me there but all the memories.
My childhood wasn't particularly happy, as such things go, but I lived the first 20 years of my life in that house, and it's so hard to let go. The restaurants I ate at a thousand times, the church where I was baptized and where I met and married my first husband, the schools I attended.
My mother believed she would be with my dad again when she died (he passed away in 1989). I hope she's right. We were so different, but she loved me unconditionally. I miss her.
I knew I would have to do this someday. My mother was 94 when she died, so I should be well prepared. But I hate this.