She glances my way, trying to catch some emotion but I am dry.  "I'd be bawling my eyes out if it were me," she says.  I look around at the barren walls and clean swept floor, at nails that held our stories and doors that creaked our whispered passings.  It is not but a shell.  It feels plastic and impersonal - mopped of any little bit of me or us.  I don't feel like we're leaving anything.  I feel like we're going home.





















There is an eerie feeling of deja vous as we turn into a laneway labeled "Austin" on an old metal mailbox.  I remember being small.  The rusted swing set by the barn creaking as I sat one-sided on the double swing, watching as the grey moving van rumbled down towards me, my grandmother and baby sister peering out the windshield to where I waited to plant our roots - here where berries grew wild and apples fell like bombs upon the driveway.

And here we are again.

I am sad to watch my mother load her life into a trailer and disappear from this place she poured her heart into.  Her touch is in every moment of beauty here - in the herbs that grow tall in the garden, in the flowers that colour the beds, in the warmth that catches under the branches where I will sit and be inspired as often as I can.  I am sad but I am honored to be trusted with this piece of her heart - this history upon which my family can grow on the old.

Already the boys have begun their plans for a tree fort in the old walnut.  Already they bound around the field, exploring and rediscovering what it's like to be a child.  Already we've painted the walls and railing and windows with our fingerprints - laid our claim out strong and mighty with a nod to the forever of this place.

Noa, sweet and soft, looks over the west field as the sun sets and gushes, "It's soooo pwitty!  We awer soooo lucky!"

And we are.  So lucky.  We are home.

Garden, shed and fire pit

The barn

Picnic arbor - front yard

Back yard

Memorial garden - front yard