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Saturday, October 1, 2022
Home Blog One Moore Thing Goodbye Owensville Road— One Moore Thing

Goodbye Owensville Road— One Moore Thing

It feels strange to write a love letter to a house but I guess that’s exactly what I’m doing.

Maybe it’s not so much a love letter but a thank you note, a testament to all of the steps and dreams spent within it; a validation that life was seen and spent and broke open there. So maybe it is a love note after all.

I was very pregnant with my now 13-year old and held a tiny two-year old’s hand in mine when we unpacked our bags here and called it home.

And now many more bags have been unpacked and undone and packed up again. I stopped by yesterday morning to make sure everything was just right for the new buyers and the house was dark, empty and still. And everything still feels.

If the walls could whisper they would echo of all of the firsts that happened within them. A new baby boy carried home. And two years later another boy and a girl born ten minutes apart. First words and spells of belly laughter and first wobbly steps down the hall that turned to sprints of legs grown taller and faster. Cribs built and cribs taken down. First snowfalls and blizzards and Christmas mornings in footed pajamas and bonfires that lingered deep into the night. First jumps into the crystal-clear water of the pool we built and afternoons soaked in sunlight. The late sleepless teething nights and the mornings that came too soon and the cartoons watched with no place we had to be and the kitchen dance parties that happened between.  Babies. Toddlers. Preschool. Kindergarten. Elementary, Middle and the start of High School. The first days and hard days and great days of each were taken in here.

The walls would maybe speak of the lasts too and maybe of lines and painful words drawn. Last kiss. Last goodbyes. Great, aching, significant loss. Those moments demanded to be felt here too. 

But I think the walls would most want to brag about all of the people that have graced the space between. All of the holding, all of the building, all of the listening and all of the living. The friends and the family and the food that have surrounded us in that chapter and the ones that have been there to help carry us to the next. These dreamers and fighters and anchors, these walls have held them all. They have seen our dark. They have been our light. And they don’t care how big the next kitchen is because they know that they will always have a chair there.

Thank you, Owensville Road. Thank you.

You were a significant chapter of our lives. And we love you fiercely for it.

And to the new buyers who in their letter to us stated, “The love is still felt there.”  Thank you. That whole letter unraveled me in the best way possible. In this space and in this time, it is meant and built for you. It is yours. And meeting that dear little three-year-old of yours with beautiful blonde curls and eyes open excited and wide, I could feel the love and joy and the stories that the walls will continue to carry on.

Here is the red front door. Here are the keys. It is yours for the living.

With hope in our pockets, onward we all go.

Katie’s essay and tangent collection about motherhood, life and imperfection, Happy Broken Crayons is available on Amazon now. Thank you for reading. You are the (queen) bees knees. Happy happy holidays and happy happy new year to you. In setting your hopes for 2018, please think about your word. I can’t wait to hear it. Xoxo

To read more blogs by Katie Moore click here.

Katie Yackley Moore is a freelance writer, real estate agent, yoga instructor and a momma of four navigating life and a separation and finding herself in the process. She adores coffee shops, laughing until it hurts and impromptu dance parties. Her work has appeared on Scary Mommy, Mamalode and HuffPost Parents. She has published a journal entitled “Dream a Bigger Dream” and the children’s books “You Are a Warrior” and “We are Family” and just finished her first novel. Catch up with her between tea breaks at The Naked Momma and on Facebook.

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