This week I said goodbye to my parents' house. The last house they lived in together. My mom died almost 4 years ago from colon cancer. I should have seen it coming, but I could never accept the fact that my mom was sick. Really sick. She was positive to the end and really held on to the hope of a miracle. She had also kept how serious it was from me. She knew she was terminal, but never said those words to me.

My mom had a gift with making a home a haven. A warm, welcoming place where all felt accepted and at home. They moved in to this house when I was starting up my own right before my 12-yr old daughter was born. She took this house, a renovated duplex and lifted away the depressing, 70's veneer and added her own special touch. They lived under construction for weeks while she had new carpet put in, walls painted, and the kitchen opened up and remodeled. Once it was finally put together, an appraisal of the house proved her efforts to be worthwhile. My dad grumbled over all the money she was putting into this house, but even he was impressed when they were told they had hugely increased the value of the house.

There are so many memories of this house in the seemingly sort time they lived there. This was the place I brought my daughter every day while I was at work her first 2 years. She was the first grandchild to come into that home. Four more would follow from her kids. There were showers, parties, dinners, and, finally, a wake. This house watched her celebrate and it watched her die.

Of course, my dad would move on. It was too big for just him and he always wanted to live out on the plains. He waited for a bit to help make the transition easier on us kids, and I'm sure on himself.

I know those memories will never go away and there are plenty of pictures to help us re-live them. But, it's so wierd to think there will never be another home to call my parents' home. It will always be Dad's place now. Time to start making memories there.