It is almost one year to the date that we moved into our snug apartment on Ida Lane. For a few days, I cried for the loss of my little red brick house - and the memories made there. I stood in the entrance to my living room on the day I locked the door, and handed over the keys. Staring at an empty room, I could almost hear Avonlea cooing in her swing, Rory waddling down the hallway as she took her first steps, chili bubbling on the stove, and laughter of friends as they came and went. This space had housed joy beyond my wildest dreams. During the last 6 months it also made room for my deepest, most personal sorrows. So deep and so raw, that I didn't believe the human heart had the capacity to house it.
You see, the places we live breathe real with the life they hold, and as I stepped foot onto Ida Lane, it felt lifeless and cold. My only consolation being the two precious, warm hands that I held as I walked across the threshold. After a week of mourning our Amaryllis house, I put my shoulders back, and began to look up again. And with that decision, I started to notice things... Rory and Avonlea running up and down the hall pretending to be fairies being chased by a fire breathing dragon. Piling all of the pillows on the floor by the sofa and taking great leaps into them like a lake of cotton balls. Laying out my scriptures and favorite books on the kitchen table and devouring with an unsatiable hunger. Taking long baths in the red claw foot tub. Nights of snuggling, and falling asleep together on the couch. Hours of time spent making memories was adding up to something tangible and significant.
One summer evening in July, we walked in the door after an exhausting day of summer play, when Rory proudly exclaimed "Home Sweet Home!" And just like that, it happened. This WAS home. I've discovered that cliche's are that for a reason...they're true. That being said I can comfortably declare that "Home is wherever I'm with you."
