The Little Brown Brick House

Photo by Nathan Fertig on Unsplash

I was twelve years old when I left my childhood home for the first time. I was starting an adventure at a new boarding school, in the mountains of North Carolina. My "home" would be amongst friends and faculty there for the next three years. While I missed my childhood home, I knew that one day, I'd return to it. 

I left home, once more, when I was fifteen. This time, to a boarding school tucked away into a mountainside in Pennsylvania. Again, I missed my childhood home, but I knew it was a place I'd always return to. When the holidays came, I went home. When summertime came, I went home. That little house in the center of the cul de sac was a staple in my life. No matter how cluttered it got, or how unkempt the yard was going to be, that little place is where I grew up. 

The brown brick home, surrounded by tall trees, and a rolling green grass yard, was the place where I took my first steps, said my first words, and made my first memories. There were drawings on the walls from when I was a tot and learning to draw with crayons. There were still stickers on chairs that I had placed on them when I was 6 or 7. Within those walls were the very foundations of my beginning of my life, my creation as a person. 

So when I discovered that my childhood home had to go up for sale in 2018, I was deeply saddened. This home, had always been my return. Sure, I had made homes in the houses/apartments I rented, and I was surrounded by a family made out of friends, but I was, for sure, always going to come home. It had been my plan, after finishing my university education, to return to Washington, DC. To my little cul de sac, and find work in the area. Never did I think I'd be moving to Pennsylvania, or that I would be buying a house in my name at twenty-six years old. But there I was, doing the unthinkable. 

Grief washed over me then. Knowing that I was never going to see that house again (as it was bought for demolition), brought on a new sort of sadness. It was deep inside, almost like there was a knot in the pit of my stomach. But made out of tears. 

As stated before in previous posts, there are five stages of grief, according to the Kübler-Ross scale. Those five are: denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. For the first few months, even while packing up my childhood life into boxes (either for donation or to keep), I was certainly in denial. There was no way I was losing my childhood home. There was no way that this staple, that had always been in my life, was just suddenly NOT going to be there. That was a preposterous idea. That denial turned into anger real quick, as the house began to empty out. As we saw spots of carpet that had not been seen in years, as the piles of stuff dwindled down into nothing, or into boxes marked up with shipping tape, it became clear to me that my father was at fault. How dare he let the house get the way it was! How dare we have to move! Why was my childhood home up for sale? Didn't he know that I wanted the house? That I had big plans to move back to the DC area and work there? Didn't he care at all? 

These thoughts and more raced through my head, as more and more piles of stuff turned into stacks of boxes. There were loads of car trips made between states, loads of trash taken away, and our quiet house turned hollow and echoey. "Maybe this new life will be good to us," I thought, as the acceptance stage started to creep in. I spent months house hunting, while navigating between the two states, trying to find the perfect location for where I could care for my father and still attend my classes. In a place where I could have my animals and my own space and he could have his. I worked with a wonderful realtor, and after visiting houses all over the neighboring towns, we had finally found one that had hit the market a few days into the final weeks of my search. It was perfect. 

Quiet and safe neighborhood, split level home so we could have our respective spaces, and within driving distance from the University. It was a small miracle as I had been on the verge of giving up. We closed on the house faster than intended, and within August of 2018, moved in. But this meant saying goodbye for good to my little brown brick house that contained all my childhood memories. 

During the last trip made to that house, the hallways echoed as footsteps were made, and voices bounced off the walls. It was strange seeing the house look so empty. It looked small, far smaller than I had ever remembered it looking. It didn't seem quite right that furniture no longer made their home in our what used to be our living and dining rooms. Even the basement, which had been filled to the brim with things, was empty, sad and alone. As we drove away from our house, for the last time, my heart was hit was deep gut-wrenching sadness. This was the depression phase. And while we had our beautiful new home, I was losing the one I grew up in. Even while I unpacked boxes and tried to settle into the new place, I couldn't erase the fact that I my childhood home would be gone. It didn't seem fair. 

We are two years down the line and I still get pangs of sadness concerning our old home. I've finished University classes now and have graduated with my dual degrees. I have set up photos of my life before, around the house, in the hallways and stairwells of this new house. Small reminders of what had been. It feels homier in this house now because of it. 

Sure, I have dealt with grief in many stages, mainly involving deaths, but this was a different kind of grief. This was goodbye to a staple that had always been there, a memory that felt like it would never leave, and a home that was the foundation of my very beginning. 

It was goodbye to the little brown brick house in the center of the cul de sac. 

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Disclaimer: Please remember that these are real stories as we remember them. We are not therapists and are NOT qualified to diagnose, treat, or provide counseling. The coping strategies shared in our stories are what we found to be useful and may not work for everyone. Some of the content, as mentioned above, may be triggering. If you need to reach out, please call 911, or go to your local hospital or stress center. Additional resources include the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline: 1-(800)-273-TALK (8255); the National Hopline Network: 1-(800)-442-HOPE (4673); the Crisis Test Line - Text "HOME" to 741741 to connect with a crisis counselor; and the National Domestic Violence Hotline: 1-(800)-799-SAFE (7233). 

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About the Author: Josefina is a recent graduate of Penn State University and is a holder of two degrees - Psychology and Vocal Performance. She is also a mezzo-soprano, an on again-off again blogger, a certified social media manager, and a sometimes celebrity, fashion and portrait photographer. When she's not writing, she can probably be found drinking far too much coffee, hanging out with her seven pets, or behind the lens on a photoshoot.