...we found out a few days ago that my childhood home is for sale.
My parents built the house in 1984 when we moved from Connecticut.
My brother and I nearly broke our necks climbing the trees and swinging from the vines in the woods.
I can still remember the feel of the wood paneling as I ran my hand across it running down the stairs. I remember scrubbing the front hall tiles as my chore and the heavy front door. I remember figuring out the rhythm of the front steps so they could be skipped just right. I remember getting a running start and sliding halfway across the hardwood floors in my slippered feet. And of course, there was the pink prom dress on the hill.
What makes it all weird for me is that, according to the pictures posted online, nothing (except for some landscaping and an added deck) has changed in the 12 years since my parents sold it. Not the 1980s peach carpet or the kitchen cabinets. Not the paint color or that tile I used to scrub. My basketball hoop is still in the driveway. It literally looks like my family just packed up its belongings and left. I feel like there's probably a pink sequin laying on a floor somewhere with my name on it.
And I can't trip down memory lane without a few awkward photos (because the pink prom dress photo isn't awkward at all).
And what's better than one awkward-clarinet-playing-photo?
(And yes, the plant behind me is threatening to eat me).