Selling a house isn’t an easy thing. Most certainly not for the St Joseph statue performing a subterranean headstand in the front yard. But thanks to his talents, the chocolate brownie scented candle that’s been burned to a stub, and one hard working real estate agent; you find yourselves signing your names over and over with a very nice silver pen.
There are a hundred things that have to be packed. Stuff that needs to come along to the next address. The wall where their heights were marked each year, the tree house that lives on ground level (thanks to the giant windstorm), and the scuff marks on the baseboards from their little shoes (and their grown bigger shoes); None of it will fit neatly in a box.
So there you are, shovel in hand, explaining frantically to a three inch high dirt covered plastic statue that, “it’s all happened a bit too fast”.
It’s where your children have licked the batter from the spatula as you baked their birthday cakes. It’s the only address the tooth fairy has on record for your name. Your home is the box that wraps up all your memories into a giant gift.
I photographed your home. Without all of you these pictures could have been any house. They could have been real estate pictures.
But with you inside, your house is more “home”, than any home I’ve ever set foot in. It’s wallpapered from roof to cellar, in the humor and happy chaos of an amazing family.
A house only becomes a home when it is full of fingerprints, and laughter, and love.
There’s nothing that makes your house a home that will fit in a mover’s box, yet I’m confident it’s all coming with you.