Bittersweets.

As much as this month has been filled with making great memories and making the most of the weather, it has also been filled with the bittersweet.

A couple weeks ago, before the leaves had fully started to change, I made the my way back to my childhood home.  The one where I lived from age four until I left home for college, and later on, for good after marrying Caleb.

I returned home to say goodbye.  My mom decided to sell the house and start a new adventure with her boyfriend, Tom.  As much as I am happy for my mom's fresh start, I mourn the loss of the home in which I grew up.

My childhood bedroom that has long shredded its childhood garb for a more sophisticated style.  I still see flowered wallpaper, cream carpets stained with Tinker Bell nail polish, and littered with a little girls collection of stuffed animals and dolls.

The room where I spent playing Barbie's with my girlfriends and melting inappropriate objects in my Easy Bake Oven.  Which later became a hangout for friends to paint nails, gossip, and giggle about boys.  Where I made out with boyfriends and later shared my first kiss with my husband.

It's difficult to think about a new new inhabitant, but somewhat comforting.  I can imagine a new little girl with new memories to be developed in the comforts of this space.  I think about her looking our window... into the woods and cornfield... imagining all the possibilities of her future like I once did.

The woods where I made forts with my cousins, one of which has left us and moved to the beyond.  Where secret societies were formed, complete with secret handshakes and passwords required for entry.  Where my pop target practiced with his bow and arrow.  Where I pretended I was a scientist conducting experiments and making concoctions out of the dirt and and leaves.

The woods where I got my first skinned knee and my Pop told me, "Thats what life is like living in the country.  Be tough." 

The place I was married.  Where I walked out my front door, grasping the arms of my mother and grandfather, into the arms of my loving husband.  My future.

The walls of the home that hold my holiday memories.  Happy memories.  Sad memories.  Most importantly, my memories with my father.  The place in which I have always returned, but will return no more.

Standing in my yard... for possibly the very last time... I couldn't help but wonder if anyone could possible love this home as much as me.  I hope so.  How could they not?