our first place.

Boxes are covering all 850 square feet of our little abode.

Paintings and pictures are down.

Curtains have been removed.

Our bedroom is the only thing that remains relatively untouched, and last night, while packing away cookware I didn’t even know I had, it hit me.

I didn’t mean to get emotional, but the tears began to flow.

I’ve only lived in this little place for 7 months, but I’ve become attached.

The glass door knobs.

The wedding cards hanging on the door.

Our love notes to each other.

Dante in the living room, offering silent judgment on our every move.

Even the flickering of the lights that reminds us just how old our home really is.

I’ll miss watching the trees sway in the breeze.

Buying lemonade from the little girl down the street.

Snuggling with Jordan in the first bedroom we were able to call ours.

Squeezing into the tiniest bathroom I’ve ever seen.

Whispering about our quirky neighbors.

Planning outings to the local park that were too few and far between.

Our little home was really and truly the perfect first place.

And my sentimental, Anne-like heart breaks a little at the thought of leaving it behind. So much growing up, so many happy memories took place here.

Cousin slumber parties.

Late night air hockey games and visits with the brother.

Marathons of The Office.

Arguments over the importance of law school (Him: very important. Me: not so much).

Burnt dinners.

Date nights.

Bible studies.

Overnight guests.

Last night, I found myself wondering: why the need to change?

I, after all, despise change.

Why move?

I guess there are legitimate reasons.

Bugs.

Terrible maintenance.

Space.

Mostly, though, I think it’s because I love things more than most.

And our little apartment.

I love it.

And the person who owns it just doesn’t love it like I do.

As I took down the cabinet knobs I’d hand-picked for my tiny first kitchen, I couldn’t help but think: No one will love you like I did.

No one else will recognize how lovely Ingleside Avenue rolls off the tongue.

No one else will think of you as their treehouse.

No one else will drape hearts over your door for Valentine’s, or fill your nooks with fresh flowers.

No one will love you like I do. And that’s the problem.

I knew we wouldn’t live here forever. In fact, I think, deep down, I knew we wouldn’t be here long at all.

There’s always another grand adventure, the next big thing.

I get it.

And I’m thrilled with a new place to call home.

A place for new memories.

But I don’t think anything could replace the first place.

And despite the bugs

The maintenance

The space

I know Jordan and I picked the right first place for us.

Sometimes, I think I’ll drive by 710 Ingleside Avenue, and remember.

I'll sit in my car, and I'll watch our 23 year old, in-love ghosts walk up the stairs and dance in the living room.

And I’ll smile.

And I'll know: really, my home isn't a place.

It's a person.

And I'll drive away, remembering.