Today the sale of our Maple Avenue house became
official. Those who know us and
have spent time at our house understand why it was impossible for me to live
there after Andrew had gone. His presence was huge, and the emptiness in the
house was more than I could reasonably bear. Though we owned the house for a
mere seven years, it’s difficult to overstate what the place meant to us. This
110-year old, Victorian fun house on the river was our absolute refuge and
sanctuary. We arrived here a bit battered from too many hard years in the city,
ready to start a new beginning in the countryside. We had a 9-month old infant
and very few belongings to fill the many, many sunny rooms. Over time, and with
a lot of paint and sweat we made it our own beautiful nest – a love letter to
each other.
Our babies were raised here, among the tomatoes, cucumbers,
and watermelons. They learned to walk and swim and play here. They learned to
identify various flower types in the rambling gardens I planted, and how to distinguish
the weeds from the seedlings. They
helped us plant the birthday roses, mother’s day roses, the flowering shrubs
and fruiting trees – so many gifts of love from my husband, too numerous to
count. They helped their father hammer and saw and weld things in the beautiful
old carriage house that bore the inscriptions of previous owners from a
lifetime ago. And we all delighted in the secret places and spaces the house
revealed to us. We cooked and ate delicious food here, we made cozy fires in
the winter, and swam like fish in the summer. We entertained many, many friends
here -- friends that we are so privileged to know, and who took care of us
through Andrew’s illness in ways I never could have dreamed of.
We loved each other passionately, talked endlessly, laughed
and cried, and rarely ever fought in this house. I helped my beautiful, young husband
make his journey to the next life in this house. And as I watched him leave us,
I gave a tiny prayer of thanks that his last years here had been so very, very
happy.
