August 13, 2003 - 1:05 a.m.
Tonight, just a few moments after I finish writing this and post it, I will sleep in my Wyandotte bedroom for the last time. I'm leaving home. Flying the coop. Making empty the nest.
And I'll miss it. Horribly. Excruciatingly. With every fiber of my being.
There are memories too many to count in this place. I grew up here.
I was rocked to sleep here. I woke up crying after bad dreams here. I learned to ride a bike out front, and shortly after came inside so Mom could kiss my skinned knees.
I punched Jon Guest in the face once, at about age 7, while sitting in the living room. I had just gotten the "don't be afraid to stick up for yourself" speech, and didn't quite understand what it meant. I guess Jon sort of grew up in this house, too. For the past 18 years, he's been a part of my family.
I burned my hand on some hot chocolate in the upper front hall. Hazel put butter on it to make it feel better.
I fell down the stairs after stepping on the cat -- the same stairs, incidentally, that had a trail of chocolate Easter eggs lining the railing on Easter morning when I was little. The same stairs from which we hang our stockings.
I broke a few glasses here, and even a piece of furniture or two. I wrote on the walls here. I peed my pants when I was being potty trained here. I also had diarrhea on the front porch when I was old enough to be out of diapers but too young to open the door in time to save myself.
I watched thunderstorms and blizzards from the front window, when it wasn't blocked by our huge Christmas tree, that is.
I had awkward moments here, too, coming home to cry to Mom on Valentine's Day, 1995, about how every other seventh grader got a candy-gram from someone "special," but how I didn't seem to rate.
The phone here has carried some very serious conversations from friends who loved me enough to call me and share their problems. I've talked about divorce, death, lost loves and incredible fears. I've heard people cry over these phone lines. I've held people in the kitchen while they let out their rawest emotions. I've stared at the ceiling in my living room, lying next to my best friends, talking about life.
I can name everyone who lived on this block in the 1950s, and that's because my mom and I spent long hours on the front porch talking about who was who and what happened then. She grew up here, too. I don't give my mother the credit she deserves, for everything she does. I don't think any of us do.
My dad tried to teach me how to play football in the front yard, and how to play basketball in the backyard. He also left the comfort of his easy chair to see my plays and concerts when the sports didn't stick.
A shelf in this house holds a video tape of me as a baby -- which was shot here. It's in black and white, by the way, just so you know how old I am. In it, my parents are elated with everything I do. Every gurgle, every chirp, every gas-induced smile. That all happened here.
I came home from the hospital to this house and I grew up here, physically and emotionally.
I know there will be memories made in my new apartment, and all of my subsequent dwellings, but none so strong as the ones captured here.
To my parents, this is home. To my friends, this is a nice place to hang out.
To me, this is the most sacred place on Earth.
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