A House is Not a Home

 Last month, I woke up and checked my phone for messages, like I usually do. I'll often make coffee, come back to bed, put on my reading glasses and see how the day might unfold. I received a note from someone I didn't even know, who sent me a picture of a pile of splintered wood, along with the message

"your former house"

Needless to say, I was a bit shocked. 

Although I had very little sentimental value attatched to the house at that point, I lived in it for over 15 years until I went through a divorce, and then spent the last few years trying to sell it, as I was soon living with my new partner, and had no interest in keeping what was an old fixer-upper in poor shape. The person I ended up selling it to had just been part of a big rehab project on another aging cottage in the association, so I had hopes that they might finish the job on mine, but they seemingly ran out of money and simply moved in and started tearing things apart without doing any type of construction. It was a sad development (or lack thereof) and the new owner only lasted a couple of years before he was evicted for various reasons. The next new owner let it sit dormant for several months, and I had a feeling that something was going to happen.

Back when I still was the owner and sole resident: I had very little to do when I would show up, other than collect mail, and make sure the pipes weren't frozen during the winter months. A few of the local cats in the park would come say hello. I ignored advice from people who said I should keep the house as an investment, because I knew that it was too expensive an undertaking and a complete tear down would be in store for the future. I was sitting on a footprint that was more valuable than the house itself.

and so it would come to be, 4 years after I sold it and moved out for good. In its place will likely be something grand and refreshing to see, instead of a decaying symbol of my failed marriage and an empty safe haven. Looking back, I had run out of places to live in New England, and the Valley was my idea of the happy home I had been longing for ever since I fled Boston in the early '90s. When things were at their darkest, I was completely alone and scraping by to keep up with the mortgage and heating bills, while staying optimistic that things would eventually turn around. So I don't miss all the work I put into something that was not meant to be, although I'm glad I made it work long enough for me to safely move on, when it was finally time to do so.