For the first four years of our marriage, we lived in a tiny cabin house without modern convinces such as a microwave, a dishwasher, a washing machine and a mailbox. People don't believe me when I tell them that, despite all it lacked, it was like living in Neverland.
I loved it there, but after our son turned one, it was time to move into the "new house." Here's a little bit about our last goodbye at the old one.
The last night in my cabin-house, I remember hearing the gravel rumble underneath the my tires as I rolled over our driveway. I opened the driver's door of my Civic and the hot, heavy air flooded inside, covering me up me like an old quilt. The sound of rural Alabama after sunset -- tree frog calls and crickets chirping -- hushed the sound of pickup trucks and cars passing on the road nearby. I got out, pulled my one-year-old son out of his car seat, and I carried him up to the porch, the screen door clapping behind us like a scene from an old movie.
We sat down on our swing, built by my great grandfather, and I swayed him to sleep while we waited on his dad to meet us there. When he did, I opened the front door, illuminated by a single bulb. Inside, I looked left into the living room. It seemed unfamiliar without its sofa, which was recently moved out. Then I looked right. All I could see was the silhouette of the kitchen cabinetry -- the last set ever built by my husband's father -- and the digital clock glowing on the stove. It was 11:11 p.m. and my baby boy was sleeping in my arms at the cabin-house for the last time.
Photo by Maggie Rae Photography.
