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Moving out of ones own home

What a bizarre feeling it has been to move out of the house I've lived in and owned for 15 years (and one and a half months).

The new owner, rightly so, was anxious to move in.
Mr. F and I were able to move everything out on time, though we forgot one small item which was in the basement.

We called the new owner so we could pick up the item.

When we got to the house,
we rang the doorbell
and waited for the young man to answer.
His mother answered the door.
There were several others there.
I asked if it was all right if I kept
my snowy boots on and walk in.
They said an emphatic, "Yes."

They were so kind while I waited,
and Mr. F gathered his belonging.

We said our good-byes,
and both the young man and his mother
put their hand out to shake mine and Mr. F's.
It was a solid grip for all of us.
That was wonderful.

Though I was ready to move out of the house, it's still a strange phenom.
There were years where I believed that if I had to make the decision
between that house and a man,
I would have picked the house.
No jo

I didn't feel this sadness, loss ... so much when I went back to visit my childhood home,
a year after my mother sold and moved out of it.
Guess enough time had passed after living there full time.

Mr. F and I have been so busy lately, I haven't cried yet about giving up the house to another.
That may happen once we're on the road.