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When I was 13 years old my parents moved our family from one house to another.

We moved within the same city, only a few miles from where we had been living.

That was a hard move for me.

From the time I was born, until I was thirteen, my parents lived in six different places.

My first home was the house my parents bought when they first moved to St. Louis. A grand three story brick building with space and room to spare (House #1).

When I was a couple years old we moved because my brother and I got lead poisioning due to the lead paint in the house. And so we moved; first to one apartment (House #2), then in with my grandparents (House #3) for a summer while my dad worked full time to rehab the older house so it would be a healthier and safer environment to live in and raise his family.

When the old brick house was sufficiently rehabbed, we moved back in (House #4) and lived there until I was six.

My parents then rented out that house and moved into an apartment (House #5). This was mostly due to the fact that my dad got a job working for the Archdiocese of St. Louis as a custodian for the local Catholic church that we attended as a family. Part of the work arrangement, and/or agreement, was that we could live in the old convent that was part of the church’s multiple building complex. So, for three years we lived on the third floor of an old convent, in the small three bedroom apartment that was formerly the living quarters of the Mother Superior.

After three years, my mother was done, done, done with the small space (A tight squeeze for four rowdy, growing children and two adults) and wanted her own house back. So, we moved back into the house my dad had rehabbed (House #6).

I always think my childhood was odd in the fact that 1. I lived in six ‘different’ places, but three of those places were actually the same house and 2. I lived in an old convent (Which was super, super cool for a kid to live in. Maybe I’ll unpack that in another post).

As I mentioned earlier when my parents decided to move when I was an early teen, it was really hard on me. Over the years I’ve heard a lot of people tell their life stories and many times there is a big move involved. Now, this particular move wasn’t so big (As in a cross country move or out-of-state or country move), because, as I said before, it was only a few miles from where we had been living.

But for me, in my tender teen years, it was a big move. And I think that was because I loved where we had been living. I loved that old, big, spacious house. It meant a lot to me. Not only because my dad had put a lot of work into it, but I had a lot of memories there. Some of my very earliest memories were in that house; it was special to me in a way that even now I find hard to explain. It was my Home, with a capital H. It was where I felt like I belonged. Comfortable, secure, famliar, safe.

I never really understood why we made that move. Almost thirty years later I still don’t really understand it. Maybe I’m not supposed to understand.

Earier this year my mom mentioned that ‘our old house on 9th Street’ was for sale. Over the years there have been quite a few owners of that house, with an open house accompanying the sale. I’ve never been back. I’ve had chances to see it again, but I haven’t taken those chances. With as much as I loved that place you would think that I would jump at every opportunity to see the inside again.

My reason for not going back was because when we left I wanted it to remain in my mind the way it was. The way it was when we lived there. I wanted it to stay, in a way, pure in my mind. I didn’t want the memories touched. I wanted to always see it the way it was, the way it had been. To me, the way it always will be.

Last Friday my brother mentioned that there was an open house for ‘our old house’ on Sunday. He was going with his family. He was excited to go, to see it again. Was I going to go?

I debated. I told him that I haven’t been back (He had).

But I really and truly debated going this time. Other times, it was a hard no. This time…this time…maybe I was ready. I’ve grown up. I’m married. It’s been almost thirty years. Maybe my husband would like to see where we used to live. Maybe I need to see the house, to get an update in my mind of what the house looks like in 2021 (Not 1993). Maybe I just need to do it. Maybe I’m ready.

I looked the house up on Zillow after talking with my brother. I looked through some of the pictures…but I couldn’t…I couldn’t even finish looking at all the pictures. Somehow my heart hurt. Maybe it seeing them was too close for comfort, especially after losing dad.

So, Sunday came and Sunday went.

And I didn’t go.

Yesterday I was processing…feeling like I had perhaps missed an opportunity.

Maybe I should’ve gone, to heal a thirty-year heart and soul wound, to perhaps finally gain some understanding of why the move was made.

What would it be like to be in the real, physical space again and not the one I’ve kept in my heart and mind all these years?

What would it be like to walk up the large front staircase again? To be in my old room; the one with all the windows? What would it be like to truly see again the beautiful hardwood floors my dad put in, with the alternating colors? To see the basement where we played many, many games of pool over the years, where I built my dollhouse, where we did laundry, to be where my dad’s old workshop was, to see the old cellar? To be in the attic again where we had our school room, play room? To be in the small crawl space, to smell the comforting scent of old wood that had been warmed by the sun on the roof? To see the etched windows my dad had put in the bathroom; the old claw foot tub?

But I didn’t go.

I had to realize, as I was debating with myself over the weekend, that the memories I have of that place aren’t going to change. The house itself has changed; inside, outside, who has lived there…all that has changed. But when we lived there, how it was when I was there, was how it was and my childhood memories that I have in that space are what they are. I’ve never wanted to spoil those memories. To me I’ve always thought that seeing it in the present day reality would somehow spoil them. But in fact, the memories of that place are a part of my life, of who I am, and I can’t change them. They are a part of me. They are a part of my story.

I don’t know if they’ll have another open house this year. Maybe if it sells again and another opportunity presents itself for me to see it up close and personal I’ll take it. Maybe not.