Long, long ago in ancient times traveling nomads would leave large towers of rocks to mark that once "we were here".
The earlier Europeans, forging ahead into the dense center of America's wilderness would leave stone piles to mark their path as they sought what prizes they could claim in the wilderness.
February is rolling to its end: Spring looms ahead.
Our house is going on the market in about six weeks.
In as little as perhaps a few months we will no longer inhabit these rooms that served witness to our varied, loud, good life.
We are pitching our tent elsewhere.
We are looking for our own treasure and wealth, blessing and glory, among woods and hills somewhere else.
No amount of paint, try as we may, will totally erase our presence here.
Venturing out in another sublime 50-degree day; our backyard a carpet of black thick mud, I watched the little ones play.
The backyard is littered.
Just stuff that can be packed up, much of it destined for the rubbish heap.
But a near decade of imagination, exploring dangerous lands, finding pirate booty, concocting witch's brew, preforming feats of strength, and earning world titles, leaves an indelible mark upon our little slice of terra ferma.
This collection of pink rocks were lying in a sprawling pile under the ancient oak in the far back corner of our backyard.
Muddy, used for varying imaginative purposes over the past hot summer, painted in our favorite hue, with the sure signed signature of a child: a pressed hand print.
We were here.
Standing so vividly pink against Winter mud and hibernation, it seemed like a marker of sorts. A homage to this "house of women" as my outnumbered husband has Christened it.
Four different human beings were brought through the threshold of this home and were cooed:
"this is your home little one"
Four times 'round newborn went from suck to chew, from crawl to totter.
We celebrated four times:
"She slept through the night!"
"She turned One!"
"She took a step…did you see that!"
"Hallelujah! She pooped in the toilet!"
I understand, this wanting to leave a mark.
After all we have made this home- a water destroyed neglected cape cod- into a restored, doubled in size, cottage- feeling home.
Our home "as it was" in 2001 when we became proud first-time home-owners; at the tender age of twenty-one.
What will we leave behind?
How have we left these walls changed?
More than an added open dining area, a large family room, and master bedroom, and finally a bathroom upstairs! More than the few windows that have several stickers permanently tattooed to their panes; I have been wondering if the next family to muck up these rooms, to fill it with crying and laughter, will be able to sense any of our spirit. Certain souls are more spiritually intuitive. I wonder if certain families have more of a sticking power to the spirit they leave behind in their home?
I think I am leaving the pile of rocks
We were here.
And we loved it.