Welcome to the very first installment of Loss + Finding Home, a real-time flash memoir of the complete gut and remodel of our 1950s California ranch-style home. Answering the questions: What does it mean to be home? Who makes up a home? How do you build a home when there is always someone missing from the dinner table?

Share The Bittersweet Weekly

I’m going to start with some honesty. I don’t know what I’m doing here, but I assure you, I mean to move you somehow with this story. I hope to change your temperature a bit and maybe help you re-think your ideas of space and home, how we grieve, gather, and mark time together. 

I study the craft of writing through podcasts1 and books2; often, the advice is, “Just write the damn thing!” You can always change it but can't edit what isn’t written.

Also, a memoir is not typically about what happened to the writer but how the writer makes meaning out of the events in their life. What did they learn? How did they change? What’s the throughline? Your guess is as good as mine. Let’s find it together!

I hope you’ll forgive me while I state the obvious: This is a real-time flash memoir. I’m writing this memoir without the benefit of perspective, and I can’t ramble on for 6000 words searching for meaning3. In the beginning, while I get my feet under me, there will be more questions than answers.

I think it’s time I stop overthinking this and just dive right in with a U-Haul4. 

My husband Nick is in the driver’s seat of a U-Haul, and My daughter Peyton (10)  is sitting next to him. I’m in my car. My oldest son, Owen (12), plays with Baby Tatum (eight months) in the back seat. In the front seat next to me are two framed photographs of a boy with big blue eyes, and next to those is a soft bamboo box. On the box is the blue-eyed baby’s name and some dates:

Aiden Thomas Henderson February 18th, 2018 - November 12th 2019. 

The UHaul and my car idel parked front to back so that Nick and I face each other. We’ve been working heads down for the past three days, moving from our house to a rental about a mile away. We made trips back and forth, packing and unpacking boxes. All the while, Aiden remained on the mantel until the beds were gone, and we knew there would be no turning back. 

“Aiden is coming with us tonight,” Nick announces just before we leave with our final load.

“Yes, he is,” I say. Then I carefully take the pictures and his box and carry them to my car. 

We need to return the U-Haul by 7 p.m. to avoid paying for another day, and we are all tired and hungry. 

But before we pull out of the driveway, something about the pink glow of the setting sun tells me to pause. I think, “I want to remember this moment5.” And now that I’ve written it down, it’s more likely that I will.  

I want to remember how, one evening, in late September, we packed up our family and said goodbye to the house that held all our memories of the last twelve years. All the birthday parties and backyard BBQs. First steps and pillow forts. The sleepless nights when Aiden was sick, the darkness after he was gone, and our collective grief and healing ever since.

I won’t miss the old plumbing, or the carpet in the dining room, or the pocket doors, but I will miss the spot on the carpet in front of the big sliding glass door where I would lay our babies on a mat so they could play in the natural light. I will miss how I could see the kid’s bedroom door from my bed and hear them if they got up at night.

When it’s all said and done, the new house will be beautiful, but right now, in this moment, I want to allow myself to grieve the end of something that has served our family well. 

I pull up to the rental, and Nick is already there. The back of the UHaul is open, and the sight of our furniture stacked in there like a game of Tetris is overwhelming. I take Aiden and his pictures to my bedroom.

He was always on the mantel in our house because I liked seeing him throughout the day, but in this new house, the living room feels too far away. I carefully place the pictures on my dresser and rub my hand across the letters in his name.

We unloaded the U-Haul, returned it just in time, and we ate tacos at my favorite place6.

I usually don’t sleep well the first night in a new place, but even as we were surrounded by boxes with a to-do list a mile long, as soon as I lay my head on the pillow, I fell into oblivion.

I’m calling this memoir Loss + Finding Home because, right now, it makes the most sense. Over the next year, while we build our (hopefully) forever home, I will grapple with the new ways grief will show up in my life. There are things I would have had a hard time letting go or putting away if it weren’t for this move and this remodel. It’s not just the house that’s getting a fresh look; it’s me as well.

This is where I am today. Thank you for listening.

Emily

Coming up… I’m going to front-load a few installments of Loss + Finding Home just to get you into the story before I return to The Bittersweet and Linkspo. Next week, I’ll tell you how we spray-painted the walls before knocking them down!

Share The Bittersweet Weekly

For Reference: I didn’t want to interrupt your reading with a bunch of links, so I included them in the footnotes for further reading.