Many nights when I dream, I'm still living in the house I grew up in. I'm visiting it for real now, and tonight's the last night I will ever physically spend here. I've been living thousands of miles away, in another country for almost nine years now, but I've never really missed it like I do now. Even though my parents have made changes over the years, the changes mostly felt superficial, or unimportant somehow. It still felt like home. It still felt like things could go back to the way they were, if we wanted.

In many of my memories, both good and bad--games with my brother in the basement, rough housing with our puppy Sacha at the top of the stairs, Christmases, dinner parties, sleepovers, pizza and movies with best friends, watching Friday night sitcoms as a family every week, first love, learning of the loss of my grandfather, friends moving away, me moving away, hugging Sacha on my bed the night before we took her to the vet for the last time--this house plays an integral role, almost like another family member. It's the one unchanging constant; the backdrop to them all. Ever present. Ever comforting.

While a part of me is sad that my parents have sold my old home, I also recognize that this is a very special thing. Not everyone has such a wealth of fond childhood memories tied to a single place. My own sons are one and three years old now, and when they grow up I want for them to have this too. I want them to have a lifetime of fantastic memories in a home that they love and where they are loved. I know that some day they'll move out on their own, start their own families, live their own lives... I just hope that when they do, even if they end up chasing a girl that they met on the Internet half way around the world and only get to visit us once or twice a year, that at least when they sleep, they can come home, and dream of a house that they loved as much as I loved mine.

Good bye, old friend, and thank you. I hope you provide your next family with the same warmth, safety, and happiness that you did mine.