moving and memories

Eric and I have moved three times since we’ve been married. They’ve all been big moves to different states, traveling a couple of hundred, and sometimes almost a thousand miles, to our new destination. I embraced each move and looked at them as adventures to new areas. I loved house hunting and finding something that our family would soon call home. There’s something exhilarating about it all – starting over fresh, the unknown, experiencing new parts of the country. I could have done without all of the paper and boxes and packing, but I guess that just comes with the territory.

Within the last week, two of my very dear friends in town, as well as my parents, have packed up their belongings and moved. I am thrilled for them because they are experiencing everything I love about moving. They’re all starting new adventures with their loved ones, and while a little scary, there is so much excitement surrounding it all.  There are new job opportunities and dream homes awaiting them.

And while I share in their happiness, I’d be lying if I didn’t say I’m sad, too. It feels so selfish. I feel guilty for the tears. Why is that so hard for me when my friends are still just minutes away, and Mimz and Poppa are moving a mile away?

It’s because Jackson left an indelible mark in all of their homes.

Jackson learned to walk at my parents house one summer. He latched onto a rickety, wooden walking toy that my brother and I used as babies, and he pushed that thing around their house for days until he slowly loosened his grip, let go and took off on his own. He swam in their pool, picked blueberries, rode a four wheeler and went rabbit hunting – all firsts for him. At my friends’ homes he built sandcastles in the sandbox, ran circles around the house chasing the older kids, and was simply loved deeply inside those walls.

Another chapter has closed in some of my favorite people’s lives. Truth be told – it scares me that people might start forgetting. A lot of my memories of Jackson are scattered throughout these homes, and as they pack up their own lives and memories and say good-byes, so will I. For my boy.

These new homes won’t have memories of Jackson, and we can’t create them now.

We won’t sit on the patio drinking a glass of wine on the summer’s night and say, “Remember when Jackson and the kids would chase each other out here?”

“Remember how much Jackson loved riding in his little car up and down the driveway?”

“Remember when Jackson sat here trying to eat spaghetti? His body stained red from spaghetti sauce, and your floor covered with noodles.”

New memories will quickly be made and three houses will transform into homes overflowing with love as they all settle into the newness that surrounds them.

Our lives are changing. I never expected things to stay like they were when Jackson was here. Change is inevitable. I get that, but sometimes it hurts just a little. It’s like we’re closing a door, and Jackson is still behind that door.

I don’t want him behind the door.

I want him in the room with me.