I hope they love this house and its surroundings as much as I did. That was my story.When I left home for college, the house—and my parents—went on to create new meaning that didn’t encompass me, yet it remained a safe place for me to land. One where the love, laughter, and food will overflow. One of the things I have learned as I age is that time goes by so fast. It happened quickly; their house sold, they spent a few weeks searching for a new one and they were set to close on both homes by the end of March.I couldn’t bear the thought of not seeing my old house one last time, so I hauled my daughters—then ages 7 and 2—across the Midwest on a 10-hour pilgrimage to say goodbye to my childhood home. So did I. I am always welcomed with open arms here. The neighborhood is changing. If only we could click our shoes and come home anytime we want. I was critical of their choice to get rid of our comfortable old house and start over, considering it to be impractical and perhaps even foolish. Grass to cut, garden to weed, wood to chop, chickens to butcher.

The time getting together with family is less and less. I couldn’t wait to get out. The love and sacrifice they had for each other and their children. In the 29 years I’ve been alive it has changed very little; part of why it pains me to say goodbye is the fact that I will no longer be able to visit my younger self. I pray they find peace, love, and acceptance within these walls. I will no longer drive down the gravel road. Crouching on the cream-colored living room carpet, I capture the mauve floral wallpaper. I was desperate to cling to the house, the history. I could breathe again. Please.My parents will make a new home for themselves; my siblings and I will always be welcomed. Sorry, your blog cannot share posts by email. Despite deeply rooted (though perhaps misguided) beliefs that I should always put my children’s needs and happiness above my own, I have carved out time for my career, my friendships, my body, my passions. We had so much freedom. (Yes we killed our own chickens). As a young girl, it was magical. So when they are adults, they can run the hand over the notches and their hearts will swell with love.I will miss you house. As I say goodbye to this 100-plus-year-old house, I realize it is just that. Post was not sent - check your email addresses! Crouching on the cream-colored living room carpet, I capture the mauve floral wallpaper. This house reflects the life and family my parents created together. I will hold these memories and how they made me feel close to my heart.Life is changing. I am happy it is. I remember in high school there was a time my parents considered moving closer to town. I am getting older. I am paving the way for my daughters to be fulfilled women with lives and desires of their own.And yet, hypocritically, I couldn’t seem to extend the same courtesy to my own parents. Pupils are missing out on saying a proper goodbye to their childhood schools and some teachers are worried. I photograph the gray-and-rose-print dining room walls, the dark wood cabinets in the kitchen, my lime green bedroom carpet, even the linoleum that repeatedly caused my toddling daughters to slip and fall every time we came to visit. The goodbyes are happening more often. I wanted them to move so badly.

Letting the rolling hills and familiar surroundings ease the tightening pain on my chest. But the people are the same. If you’ve lived in the home you’re about to leave for many years, then you must have filled it up with happy memories and charged it with positive energy from wall to wall and floor to ceiling. Even after I ceased to officially live there, the comforting, dated haven was a touchstone for me. Yet, when the stress of life and growing up became too much, I drove towards home. It makes me sad. Truth be told, I was a little bit pissed off at them.As a mother, I have made a concerted effort—battling ambivalent feelings, guilt and self-judgment—to keep my identity on the table. I photograph the gray-and-rose-print dining room walls, the dark wood cabinets … I don’t even get cell service there. Even as I wrestle with my own motherhood, I still occasionally forget the fact that my parents are people who exist in a capacity beyond that of being Mom and Dad.Then I realized that this was no longer my story. It certainly wouldn’t be the relaxing spring break I had envisioned, but I felt oddly compelled to make the trip.When my daughters and I turned onto the street where I grew up, our minivan jammed with suitcases, pillow pets, electronic devices and even the portable toddler potty, I felt a lump form in my throat. Loud voices and slightly vulgar jokes can be heard. Every time I come back I revisit the 8-year-old me, the 13 year-old-me. I want to capture it all, to keep it.It was midwinter in South Dakota when my parents decided to sell the house that had been my home since age 13. When they see the markings on the door frame where my mom marked our growth, I hope they ask their mom to do it too. When I closed the door behind me for the last time, I was struck with the disconcerting notion that I would never be held by something in quite the same way again.My parents have begun a new chapter in their lives. I will miss seeing my mom’s garden bloom and flourish. Can it slow down? When I go to visit them, I will stay in a guest bedroom that holds no history for me. In the middle of what we liked to call BFE. The Rolling Stones mournfully sang about wild horses, and I let the tears spill freely down my cheeks as we pulled into the steep driveway. My sons love their Nana and Papa’s house.

The little boy or girl will lay their head in same room where I slept. They are getting older.

It would also be the last time I saw our home, our cat and, it turned out, it would be the end of my childhood.

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