An Open Letter to My House

Note: I wrote this for my creative writing class this week; we had to write an open letter to a person or entity unlikely to respond. And my family had conveniently moved last weekend, thus providing me with a topic. 

Dear House That My Family Just Moved Out Of,

House, I would like to thank you. Thank you for sparing us from the sharp, icy fingers of Idaho’s winters. It was probably a trial to you every time we left the back door open while we showed Mom the first snowball of winter. You were trying so hard to do your job, and we didn’t even notice. And it was probably a trial to you when we left the cap off a bottle of glue which happened to be overturned without notice on your new cream carpet. And it was probably the greatest trial when we left the hose faucet dripping cold tears down your back into the basement.

I’m sorry for that, House.

I don’t want this to turn into an apology letter when it’s meant to be a thank you. But really, my thanks are tied up with apologies. I’m sorry for what we did to you and thank you for doing your job anyway.  Thanks for the twenty-five lovely trees, and I’m sorry we never raked the leaves. Thanks for the huge lawn, and I’m sorry for the embarrassing haircuts my brothers gave (special apologies for the fertilizer incident).  Thanks for the temperamental wood stove that kept us warm, and I’m sorry we never swept the chimney. Really House, you’ve managed to hold together surprisingly well considering our general lack of care.

It’s too bad that they’re leaving you. I left a while ago, but everyone else was still around to lovingly abuse you. But now that the dishwasher works, the walls painted, the carpet patched, and the leaves raked, you’re empty. Perhaps the windows are relieved to rest from the rattling of slammed doors. But I’d like to think, however irrational, that you feel a bit sad too.  There’s no teenager to grumble as he loads the new dishwasher, or small children to leave mud on the freshly painted walls. You’re quite empty and a bit without purpose.

And that’s the great irony. Everything we’d meant to do for you, House, we waited to do until we left. We missed the chance to repaint and replace and repair and enjoy it. We’ll never live in the beautiful, perfectly functioning house that you are now. It’s like a deathbed realization, except without the dying.

So I’m sorry and grateful, House.

With love and nostalgia and regret and resignation,

Kate