On Saturday, my mom left the house she’s lived in since 1960. That’s 57 years in one home. She lived on the same property, different house, for six years before that. It’s the same property my father lived in for all of his 80 years, excepting his service in World War II.
That property and that home, will always be my first home. When I close my eyes, I can see the tree line towering over the valley where the two-story block and brick home is nestled. I know the pattern of the pink tile floor in the bathroom with its squares and rectangles. I can hear the sound the attic fan makes as it stirs to life. And, I know in exactly which parts of the yard the wild purple and white violets grow.
