I took out my camera today, like I do many days, but didn't realize how these images would hit me. It happens like that. I remember when we left Colorado and I took a picture of my oldest playing on our wood floors---the floors where my babies learned to walk. That image hit me, too. And here we are, two years later, getting ready to move, and it happened, again. Just an ordinary moment... How many times have we sat at this table and practiced our ABCs or learned how to add? The meals. The crafts. The homework assignments and church lessons. This table will hit storage for awhile when we move, and we'll likely never enter these walls again once we close the door that last time. But we LIVED here. Can the next occupants ever know how much life is wrapped up in these walls? How many ordinary moments mingled with milestones? Who we were and who we became here? Do places remember us when we leave, a bit of our hearts and histories forever beating in their air? This is the table where my babies outgrew booster seats and sippy cups. Where they learned their ABCs. Where a significant chapter of our life--spread out across the country in chronicles--happened. I will miss it.
