“Steph? What do you mean you haven’t sold the house yet? It’s been almost six months since it went on the market!” my brother, Mike, exclaimed over the phone.
“I just haven’t found the perfect buyer yet. Selling the house we grew up in takes some time, Mike,” I replied.
“Well, we don’t have the time or the money to wait any longer,’ said Mike, “I’m moving in with Liz next week, and you’re going to Rome for your new job.”
I hesitated.
“Please tell me you took that job, Steph!”, he implored, “It’s always been your dream to move to Italy!”
“Well”, I started, “I have one last potential buyer coming by soon. Hopefully they’re better than the last ones.”
“Another buyer? Oh thank God! Now go sell our house, Steph! Make me proud!”
I rolled my eyes, which I’m convinced he could sense over the phone, and we both hung up simultaneously.
After Mike’s antics, I laughed to myself, sitting at our kitchen table for what felt like the last time. After every new buyer viewed our home, I had this crushing sense of permanence, as if this would be the very last time I sat in Dad’s self-reupholstered chair, heard the gentle humming of the washing machine, smelled the rotating seasonal incense sticks Mom used to buy at the Five and Dime. The newly evergreen scent reminded me of the old toy train my brother and I received one Christmas. Uneasingly, it chugged around the tree, and we couldn’t figure out how to stop it. It just kept going and going until Mom finally flipped the switch and said, “eventually the train will always stop moving.”
Reminiscing on the Christmas past, I almost missed the familiar “Ding Dong!” of our singsongy doorbell. I opened the door to the last potential buyers, a young, married couple. The women rubbed her conspicuously round belly, her diamond rings glinting in the lights of the doorway.
“You must be Angela and Jack! I’m Stephanie. My brother, Michael and I are the homeowners.”
Eager to impress (and to sell), I smiled brightly so that my cheeks ached with intensity as I lead them into the kitchen.
“This is the kitchen,” I announced. Obviously, I thought to myself. “It is fully equipped with top notch utilities,” I proudly asserted nevertheless.
“Yes, this is lovely”,  chirped Angela.
“Yeah,” Jack agreed, “The floor is a bit scratched, though. How hard it would be to install new flooring?” he inquired.
I sighed to myself, glancing down at the particular scratch that fixed his gaze. I remembered exactly how that scratch came to be. Our dog, Saturn, was playing with his chew toy when Mike pulled too hard, dragging Saturn’s nails, and body, across the hardwood floor. We called him “Iron Jaw” after that. The dog, not the brother.
“Excuse me, Stephanie?” Jack asked.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I replied, “Yes, I can put you in contact with the company who installed our flooring originally. They’re still in business!” I added with almost too much enthusiasm.
After thoroughly viewing the kitchen, I showed them the living room, complete with a flat screen TV, one of my main talking points.
“Ooh, look, Angie!” Jack motioned, “What a nice TV!”
“Very nice”, she responded, “But I’m just not sold on this couch. I feel like a cozy fur piece would work better here, don’t you think, Sweetie?” she asked him.
Almost instantaneously, I felt myself sitting on that leather couch a decade ago, watching Sunday cartoons in my checkered pyjama bottoms. I remembered eating marginally burnt toast with my family on that couch, Dad changing the channel to watch Meet the Press, Mom in her lavender robe chiding him and switching it back to whatever mindless show Mike and I were watching instead. I could viscerally feel that exact Sunday morning, but only for one ephemeral moment.
“Well..” I interjected, “This couch is one of a kind. I swear, they really don’t make couches like this anymore!” I babbled.
The three of us stared at the ripped leather couch, discolored from spilled cereal milk and carelessly flung, dirty soccer cleats, for what proved an uncomfortably long time.
“Okay!” I cheered, collecting fragments of energy, “Let’s move on to the master bedroom!”
Feet creaking upon each step, we climbed the wooden staircase into my parent’s old bedroom before they moved into the assisted living home down the road. I gingerly opened the door, almost as to not disturb their rest, before remembering that they did not live here anymore.
“Here we have the master bedroom”, I announced again as an unnecessary formality, “In my opinion, it’s the nicest room in the house.” I continued, gushing slightly before catching myself.
Running my fingers over the headboard, I was suddenly inundated with memories. Mike and I as children, obnoxiously bouncing on their bed at an ungodly hour on Christmas morning to open presents. Waking up drenched in sweat from a nightmare, my tiny feet stomping into their room, my diminutive body cradled in Mom’s arms until I fell back asleep. Mom again, in that same bed a few years later, pushing my excessively long, flat ironed hair off my sobbing face after my first heartbreak.
Jack placed his bruised, somewhat dirty hand on the freshly draped blankets that lay strewn over my parents’ bed. For some reason, the simple act felt almost personal, inappropriate.
“Hm..”, Angela muttered, “The decor is a bit outdated. Very 90s!” she laughed. The smile from my face transferred to hers as my lips formed an unbridled frown.
“I mean, if we replaced that old mirror over there, and got rid of that painting on the wall, it would be perfect!” she exclaimed.
“What...what’s wrong with the painting?!” I stammered.
“Oh, nothing”, Jack responded, “But that mirror has probably ran its course.”
“And the painting just doesn’t fit the ambiance of the room, don’t you agree, Sweetie?” Angela added.
In a disconnect between body and mind, I suddenly shouted, “GET OUT!”
Startled, the couple looked at one another in reluctance.
“What about the house?” Jack asked.
“This house is NOT for sale anymore!” I yelled, “Now get OUT!”
Flustered, the couple scurried out the door.
Without warning, the other memories of that room rushed back in uninvited, the memories I had tried so hard to suppress over the years. Wads of hair clumped on bristly brushes. Mom painting her last piece before moving into the hospital. Me and Mike’s cotton conversations on napkins stolen from the hospital cafeteria, as to not disturb Mom’s slumber. Her creating one final drawing, a portrait of us two sketched onto a piece of scratch paper from a generous nurse. Autumn. Winter.
Sitting in front of that same mirror on prom night, my dad awkwardly fiddling with my hair. Me, crying, because he didn’t know how to use the curling iron. Him, holding back tears, hoarsely whispering, “Your mother used to do that so well.”
After consoling myself enough to form a coherent sentence, I called Mike to tell him the bad news.
“And so that’s what happened”, I finally said after recounting the story to him. I sighed in anticipation. Mike always knew how to comfort me when I was upset about Mom.
“Jesus Christ, Steph! Not again!” he scolded me, to my surprise.
“But, Mike, they insulted Mom’s painting. Did you really want those people living in our childhood home?”
“Obviously you don’t want ANYONE living in our childhood home!” he shouted.
We paused.
“Steph”, he eventually sighed, “I know we had a lot of great memories in that house. I’m smiling right now just thinking about them.”
I grinned to myself.
“And I know you’re smiling too”, he added, “But we need to move on.”
Furrowing my brow, I noticed my hand mindlessly tapping on the familiar kitchen table, the rhythm to an old song Mom serenaded us with at bedtime.
  “The past is over, Steph. Now it’s time to build our future.”
Later, I called Angela and Jack and apologized profusely. It turns out Jack’s brother recently passed away. Not only did they forgive me, they decided to buy the house after all.
Before I boarded the plane to Rome a few weeks later, I checked my suitcase one last time. From my pocket, I pulled out the folded piece of paper. Carefully smoothing out the creases, I admired Mom’s drawing of us one last time prior to entering the gate. Slowly, I am learning that letting go of the past does not mean letting go of my mother. She will always be with me, even if our house is not. Maybe I’ll have kids of my own one day, maybe I won’t. All I know for sure is that my mother’s love will stay in my mind, and my heart, forever.