:mattLandia:

Dear Home,

This is a hard entry to write. I'm not sure why, so perhaps I'll find catharsis in it.

This week is hard. Sweet. Bitter. And all mixed up.

Sweet because on Wed, at 1PM, I sold you, my home, to another. You'll note I said 'home', not house. I called you house for years, because I never wanted to admit that I owned a house in the suburbs. But a funny thing happened. Eventually, after MUCH coaxing and persuasion, you got through to me, and made yourself my home. And not without a little pain along the way:

But perhaps our greatest bond, the reason I struggle with this feeling of guilt at leaving, is that you know the echo of my voice, my anger, my pain, my sadness, my happiness, my joy. Thrice, these walls sat vigil while I watched a partner leave and move on. Your stairs stood solid while I would sit on them alone, wrestling with phantoms. Your mirrors looked into me deeply and watched me swallow and hold down the bile of anger and loss. The backyard held me up when all I could do was lay in the night grass, counting stars, watching the trees sway and wishing I could fix it all.

Six years have past. I leave this home in a better condition than I found it. I leave this place a much different man than when I entered. Changed. Transformed. Scarred. Wizened. And I leave the ghosts of all that has transpired here in my wake.

It is 1:45 AM and I leave the driveway, the last of my things crammed deep in the Saturn. Boris's head out the window. Blanca whining in her box. I turn the corner and watch my mailbox melt into the summer night.

Good night and good luck.