My father's house has finally sold. It was on the market for quite a while and my brother and his wife worked their tails off to get it in shape to sell. I'll be going back "home" this weekend to pick up the remaining furniture and I guess to say good-bye.

My parents built the house about 23 years ago. I will always remember the details of the beginning of its life. I remember the rental house we stayed in while it was built. I remember visiting the building site often. I played in what would be my bedroom with such delight. I drew on the studs for my walls and on the plywood floor. I wonder what I wrote. I wonder if another little girl will have the delight of her own room, like I did.

I imagine a nice family living there. I imagine kids playing in the big backyard, picnics on the porch my father and brothers proudly built, and possibly a little kid roller-skating in the basement, like I once did. I hope the mother decorates it with the same delight and pride that filled my mother's heart. I hope the father carefully maintains it with the meticulous methods my father did. I hope they realize what love went into making it the house it is today. I hope they love it as my parents did.

What will go through my mind as I walk through it this one last time? Will it just be an empty shell, waiting for new people to breathe life into it again? I hope it will. I hope I can say good-bye without tears.

Follow up: The inside of the house matched the weather outside. It was cold and empty. As I visited each room, instead of memories washing over me, I felt as blank as it looked. Nothing was on the walls, no warm lights, pictures, or chairs to curl up in. It was as though it were just waiting - for springtime. Waiting for a new family to breathe fresh air and life into its hollow shell. It's time.