I walked into the house this evening after a 6-hour drive and instantly felt like I was “home.” I cannot describe the feeling other than to say my heart grew inside my chest.
I do not live here now, at least, not very much–only for a few weeks in the summer, but it is the first home my husband and I made together–the place where my first two children were conceived and my first child was born. When you open the front door and step inside after a long, damp winter, it has its own di-“stink”-tive smell: a combination of wood smoke, mouse droppings, and mildew.
It is where I orchestrated elaborate summer birthday parties, picked apples for making cider, and showed my two youngest the fairy tents sparkling with morning dew. It has the little gas stove where I cooked hundreds of meals, and the stone fireplace made from rocks my husband and I hauled from the field in his old truck.
It is where, one New Year’s Day, when it was 20 below zero with the wind chill, the two of us said our vows to each other in front of family, a couple of friends, and our dog.
We have lived in many homes since, nine to be exact, but your first home is like your first love, you move on to others, but that first one holds a special place in your heart forever.