This old house is a good friend of mine. Pale yellow walls pealing to reveal bone colored plaster, cracked and stained. Wooden windows, wooden floors, firewood and a denim couch. This is what I see when I come home. Worn-in and smelling like an earthy, large-breasted woman wearing a chambray work shirt, grey hair messy and pulled back with whisps escaping at the neck, tickling my nose when I hug her. She is someone I have relied on when I needed to hide and re-build myself. And I am not the only one who has taken refuge within these walls. The sink in each bedroom point to a time when this was a working house for working women seeking a way, any way, to make ends meet. Everything about this house is feminine, strong, and safe. A wonderful friend to spend eight years of my life with. 

And so it has been very difficult to decide to part ways. I am selling my house. I think. Yes, I am selling my house. This house I should say. She is not one to belong to anyone and has never really felt entirely like "mine". That implies dominion over her when in fact we are peers. So maybe I should say I am selling my role as guardian of her health. She needs someone with deeper pockets in order to better take care of her aches and pains.

I'm not too good at walking away but I do love walking forward. Good-byes are hard, hellos are awesome. I am letting the hello pull me forward and hoping to find a witchy new steward to take my place at the helm of this ship. She will list at $429. Three bedrooms plus an attic bedroom plus a cabin out back plus a one bedroom apartment plus a fireplace, three bathrooms, flower garden and Wedgewood stove. 

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