Letting Go

{If you missed parts 1 and 2 of this story, you can read them here and here...and then today's will make much more sense.}

I was a senior in high school when Grandma died.  She was the only grandparent I had left, and I still remember receiving the news. I remember going to the basement of my parents' home and crying and telling God I never again wanted to do this kind of grief by myself. Begged Him not to take anyone else away from me until I had someone to support me in that kind of hurt.

In the weeks following her death, my mom and aunt worked to clean out the house...and while they could remove and divide the things, the memories were permanently fixed. That box on bricks turned into a home...where we had celebrated birthdays, anniversaries, and holidays, and where hours of conversation had taken place...held all those things.

I could no longer walk through the spare bedroom where I slept each time I spent the night...or sit at the top of the stairs where I played Hi-Ho-Cherry-O with my cousin the Christmas I received it as a gift...or wrestle my way to the far corner of the dining room to my assigned seat for Thanksgiving dinner...or dig a remote control out of the recliner late at night before settling in on the couch to snooze...or walk past that spot in the kitchen where Grandma discovered the half-gallon of ice cream after I'd accidentally left it out overnight...or walk through the yard where we had BBQ birthday parties in the summers.

In the great division of the stuff, I garnered a few treasures...the glass dish with the wicker basket that held the macaroni and cheese...the cedar chest Grandpa gave Grandma as a gift...a handful of random kitchen utensils...a set of everyday dishes to put aside for later when I'd have my own place.

But the house of memories went up for sale. And just a few weeks later, a young woman purchased it to have as her first home. Sixty years after Grandma and Grandpa walked into a box on bricks and got to work making it home, she walked into a home with a strong foundation and began making her own home.

***

Four years later, I sat at my newly acquired desk in the Financial Aid Office. Not yet a college graduate, I had to shake my head every time I stepped inside the blue walls of the office...and  realized it was mine. When my senior year began, I rather hoped I could land a secretarial job somewhere after college, and before the diploma was even in my hand, the office supervisors, who had watched me work as a student throughout my college career, offered me a full time job...as a Financial Aid Counselor.

Though I was scared out of my mind at the responsibility of the job, I took it, and before I knew quite what was happening, I had business cards and my own phone number and a real email address as an employee of the school.

And as the owner of this email address, I had access to fun messages...like all the stuff people sold via email...everything from clothing to houses. And so it was that on this particular day, I glanced over an email as it came in...a house for sale.

The address looked so very familiar.

I read the house description...sounded like a lovely home.

Then I went back to the address...

...and it hit me.

It was Grandma and Grandpa's home.