June 18, 2012 by talkaboutyork
- Moving home is difficult. You leave behind the place that makes up a big chunk of your memory bank. People and places that were special, things you’ll never do again in this particular place. Like run alongside country fields, hopping with hares first thing in the morning after a heavy rainfall has washed the night away, as I did this morning. Or picking blackberries up the track that runs alongside the house, getting black sticky fingers, coming home and making jam. Or collecting thousands of walnuts that fall in the garden every October (actually I won’t miss that so much), drying them and bagging them up for school Christmas sales. Or stumbling back from the pub after dark with girlfriends, making each other scared when we turn the torch off.
Everytime I go for a run, or take a walk across fields, or spend time with people here, or watch my husband play in the local cricket team, I am acutely aware that there are only so many more times left before it all just becomes a memory. I try to really focus on the moments as they happen now, imprinting them onto my brain so that I won’t forget. We have 36 days left till we move. It’s all getting very real.
What made it even more real was our ‘moving house’ sale this weekend. After months of sorting through piles of stuff in the garage and house, researching asking prices on the internet and trying to spread the word to everyone we knew about the sale date, we were finally ready. I was so concerned that no-one would come and that we’d be stuck with all this stuff, that I hadn’t thought about how it would feel when it all started to go.
And go it did.
The metal storage racks we bought when we lived in NYC in that young, child-free phase of life. The wardrobe that will forever remind me of pregnancy as it was mine during the ‘maternity clothes’ era. The buggy and travel cot, the last vestiges of babydom, finally gone. The dining room table and chairs which our children used as they progressed from high chair to big chair, still marked with various art projects that went wrong. The kist that housed our thousands of walnuts every year. The wicker chair which I’ve sat on so many nights with a child snuggling into me as we read stories. The toy cars that are now never played with but which kept little boys vrooming around the carpet for many, many hours. The car seats that my gangly-legged boys can no longer squeeze into.
I didn’t let myself get emotional about any of it. It’s just stuff. And it had to go. That was until it came time to say farewell to the trampoline.
We’ve had it for about four years now. It served as my exercise regime for a while (not to mention a pelvic floor toner). It was where I sent the children when they just got too bouncy inside. But mainly it was where they wanted to escape to, either on their own or with a gaggle of mates. It was a centrepiece for numerous parties – from alien spaceship to naked bouncing. It has given them so many happy hours of carefree, bouncy bliss, right down to the very morning of the sale, when they continued to bounce as buyers trawled through our stuff.
And then someone wanted it. It was taken apart and carted off. Just like that. No final, last, special bounce. No farewell. Just a brown patch of grass left as a reminder of where it once stood.
I’m not sure why this has upset me the most. Possibly because it represents how different our new life in a townhouse will be, without the space for a trampoline. And I worry constantly about how the children will find the lack of space. Or perhaps it is just a symbol of my children’s life here, which is about to become another memory. I know there are many, many good things to look forward to. But saying farewell to the trampoline has made me realise just what I’m leaving behind.