Bereft

Bereft is a small, strong word. And bereft is what I am today.

Today, I sold my home. I've lived many places in the past 40 years; in fact, I've moved - on average - every 18 months. In the time since I left my parents' home, I have lived in exactly two places that I would call home; Eld Street in New Haven, Connecticut and Brockman Boulevard in Ann Arbor, Michigan. I had gardens in both places, which is one of the connecting threads.

The Brockman house looks, to me, like a Hollywood set designer's vision of a Tudor cottage. It has a balcony over the living room fireplace, ogive-arched doorways from space to space within the house, pocket doors to the closet and bathroom in the bedroom above the garage, little hidie-holes throughout, a miniature flying buttress off the front porch, a Palladian window in the garage. I love it inordinately, and have since I first stepped through the door and saw the soaring ceiling in the living room - with that balcony over the fireplace. The world divides into two camps: those who see the balcony and coo, "Romeo and Juliet" and those who exclaim "Errol Flynn!" Guess into which camp I fall. I picture flinging myself from the balcony, catching onto and swinging from the antique Dutch brass chandelier, crashing through the 12' tall windows out into the front garden, shouting "Ha, ha! Take that!", and running away through the tall flowering shrubs out front.

And now, it's time to pack up what is left in the house and leave it to whomever comes next. I guess I can walk away; I know I have to.