Homeless

Saturday night was the last time in my house. It kind of set in on Sunday when I woke up, but it still doesn't feel like we're moving, because all of the furniture and a lot of stuff is still there. The emptiness of my room got me though. Nothing in the closet, stuff that is getting packed for Virginia piled up in the corner, and everything else cleared off. I will never again wake up in that room, opening my eyes to that gorgeous blue color that I now wish was there longer. I will never sit by our fireplace, dance around our kitchen, play bounty hunter around the huge backyard with cousins/ brothers. I think in a lot of cases, it's the memories there that are hard to leave behind. I know that is true in this case, because our family (as in, the Kirbys) have been occupying this house for like 30 years. I have been going there basically since I was born, and I still can recall Grandma Camps, playing in the pool outside, making forts in the living room, dressing up in the girls room, cuddling up with cousins to watch movies, and navigating through the basement where Grandma would sit for hours surrounded by fabric and watch Star Trek. However, I think it is also the fact that we are leaving home. And of course I feel at home at Grandma and Grandpa's house, but it isn't quite the same. It isn't totally my space, and even when we are a little more settled in in a few months, it still won't feel like our home. That for me is the hard part of not moving directly into a new home.

I'm currently getting too emotional writing about this. I have a lot more to say though, and more updates to give, but for the sake of time and making this post a reasonable length, I will save it for another day.

I think I'm just going to have to accept the fact that this move may never really set in. And that's okay. It's probably better this way anyways, because it will save a lot of tears and heartache :)