The yellow walls are gone. I sold my house.
I remember the first roll of yellow paint on the gray walls when I moved in six years ago. It was my first mark on the house—on my house—and it was terrifying and bold. When I finished painting, I looked at the colored walls and grinned with satisfaction. I was beginning to make it my home.
When I moved in, I reflected that home is an active process regardless of where that may be. I went all in on a new house in a new city, and committed these past six years to trust my bearings and the process.
The house was unforgiving in its age, and it riddled me with a relentless queue of responsibilities. There were always more projects—the sewer, the furnace, the fence. The yard was my biggest adversary. The basement was a mess. I remember sweating with dust in my hair as I tried refinishing the storied hardwood floors. My aspirational list of improvements dwindled over the years. The house tapped my savings and motivation; how relieved I am that I sold my caretaking responsibilities.
It was all part of making it my home, and it was a magnificent one nonetheless. I remember surrounding my living room with new speakers and listening to music during a candlelit night. The light fixtures were an arduous treasure hunt. The kitchen nook was magnetic. The magnolias were stunning. This old house saw countless dinner parties and visits from friends and family filling the space with love.
And I remember when it transitioned from my house to our home, right before the pandemic started. It treated us both well during quarantine and isolation. Our home became our offices, our refuge, and the boundaries of our existence. How we loved escaping out to the front porch to watch our neighbors or a storm pass by.
With what felt like a herculean effort, I prepared it for my successor. The floors are better than ever. The old tattered carpet is replaced. The eyesores are mostly gone. I’d like to think I left a positive imprint on this house during my tenure in it—as deep as it has imprinted in me.
It was my house—our home—and now will no longer be. My name is entered into its record, having carried it forward to its centennial celebration. Maybe one day, someone will wonder about our time in this house, or maybe my presence will fade into the archives or neighborhood lore.
Finding home was never a search for permanence. Change is what I’ve known since relocating here, and this is no different. I’m still figuring out what all this means—if anything. I don’t have the answers, but oh, how much I have learned from this home these past six years.
I walked through the emptied rooms one final time, my footsteps echoing in the hollowed house. The yellow walls are gone. I’ve given my thanks and said my goodbyes. I turned off the lights; handed in my keys. I closed the door and looked back with pride.
I still believe home is an active process, and perhaps one that never ends. And now, a new path to home. I won’t be far.