It's strange.
I saw an old neighbor on Wednesday and she mentioned that our old house is on the market. It was kind of exhilarating as I considered what it would be like to be able to buy that house back.
It's a pipe dream, really. Especially since they're planning on making $70,000 since they bought it, two and a half years ago.
That place was so awesome. It was ours. The yard was ours. The carpet ~ gross as it became ~ was all ours. It was brand new when we bought it so all of the dings and stains were ours. We celebrated our wedding there. We endured the onset of mental illness there. We made new friends. We all learned a lot about each other and being a family.
The paint in the kids' rooms was only there because of my strength and sweat. I was pregnant with the Little Mann when I painted those rooms. I have no idea if they still bear the color I chose for them or if the carpet has been replaced. I know that not much has been done with the lawn.
And I can't help but wonder if the new owners (now sellers) filled the holes in the ceiling downstairs. The holes we drilled to put up a wall for Michelle's "bedroom". I wonder if they could feel the love we left there. The love that was so strong at that time. I wonder if they wondered about us.
It's probably a little silly to spend too much time thinking about it, but that house was a really big part of my life. There are clear marks in my heart from when that house was purchased and then later, when we had to sell. Those marks are deep, though they don't bleed too much anymore.
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