home

Today, the house I called home for at least 62 years belongs to someone else. The deed has changed hands, yet the rooms still hold holidays, family gatherings, neighborhood friends, and snow days spent sledding down the street. Somewhere in my memory, the treehouse is still waiting in the backyard, and Mom is still inside making space for us.

Grief comes in pieces, and sometimes one of those pieces is a place. Selling the house feels like another small loss, arriving nearly a year after Mom’s death. The house still stands, but I can no longer return to it as home.

Some pieces came with me to Tampa, including Mom’s porch rocker and my grandfather’s mantel clock. The rest must live in memory now. “When Home Changes Hands” is about letting go of a place that helped form me and hoping the next family fills it with the same warmth, safety, and love that Mom gave us.