My family moved to Pennsylvania when I was 18 months old. We moved in next door to another 1-year-old who became my best friend and changed every corner of my childhood. We walked to the bus stop together in the morning and climbed trees in the evening. Summer days were for riding bikes and playing hockey and talking about what new inventions we could create.
His family moved to a neighboring state after 3rd grade and I sat behind an armchair in our living room and cried. For weeks months after they left, I would spend car rides searching for a grey pick-up truck like his dad drove… just in case.
I knew then that for sale signs could break your heart.
The neighbors who replaced him were wonderful. A girl a year above me. A boy a year below me. I loved each moment I spent with them, jumping on the trampoline, laughing over a bonfire, swimming in their pool.
I knew then that for sale signs could bring joy.
The other day, my mom let me know that those neighbors were moving… a sad moment for two families that had grown close over the years. And I thought deeply about that house… how from a young age I’d memorized every corner of what was a second home. I thought about Halloween parties and sleepovers. Movie marathons and rice krispie treat making. Drawing with chalk in the driveway and convincing ourselves that we really could climb up the tallest tree in the neighborhood.
And I thought about all the metaphorical for sale signs I’d placed in my life.
Leaving a job. Leaving a city. Leaving a partner.
And then I thought about what happens next.
A new opportunity. A new place to explore. A new experience in love.
A friend of mine always talks about how sometimes the airport takes away someone you love… and also how the airport can be the giver of pretty amazing gifts. That’s how I want to think of my life’s “For Sale” signs. Coming and going. Ebbing and flowing.
As I sprinkle my heart in a million places around the world, I choose to believe that every episode of my life will bring something I need… even if only for a moment… even if only for one more bike ride.
Love always,
Liz
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