Zipping up my suitcase, I look around the room—at the worn blue comforter on the bed, the poetry books on the shelf, my mother’s wedding photo on the wall. Beyond the tall window is a giant spruce tree, higher than the house, its branches always moving.
These things are so familiar they have become invisible, but this morning I make myself notice. Walking downstairs, I see how the steps need vacuuming and my plants repotting. Finally, I stand in the kitchen and stare at my beloved breakfast nook, the flower-patterned tablecloth, the salt and pepper shakers.
The old house seems especially precious to me because I am leaving. This is just a short vacation, but I always feel reluctant to depart, to let go of this predictable place that I know by heart. It’s not a big house or elegant in any way, but it shelters me, welcomes me, no matter what.
As I lock the door, I stand on the porch for a moment and stare at the small back yard with its spruce trees and English ivy. Each time I leave is an opportunity to notice and to cherish—not only this house but this life, my life—right here, right now.
Someday I won’t be back.
