he bare wooden floor, now carpetless, sent shivers down my spine as I gazed into the empty room from the hallway in bewilderment. In the corner, a bucket of paint had been placed, with a paintbrush rested on top in a crooked angle. The wall that used to be my canvas for stick figure crayon masterpieces had been coated with thick white paint, making it look far too clean for a room that once belonged to a toddler.

Without the furniture that had once made the room look welcoming, the desolate space seemed odd and unknown, as if I had never stepped foot into the room before. But as if something was pulling me into the room, I felt the need to take a step inside and break the enchantment. The floor creaked beneath my feet, making me question if the sound had always been this loud. I walked over to the one window, stripped of its curtain, and looked outside. I watched as furniture that had once belonged in this house was being placed into a sea of cardboard by four or five men. As a cold gust of wind blew across the yard, they shivered and pulled their jackets close, shielding themselves from the harsh winter.

I sat down on the floor, the window too high up for me to look out of now, and I stared at the wall, scrunching my nose at the scent of paint. The paint that seemed to cover up my memories as well, in the process of creating perfect walls.

I tilted my head towards the ground. Why was I so upset? Why couldn’t I be more excited? A new adventure was waiting, a new town with new friends and new things to discover. And although I have known about the change for so long, I soon realized that it had not registered until then. The idea of leaving. The fact that there is no returning, once a new family inhabits the rooms.

For my fourth birthday, I had been given a pair of roller-skates. They were light pink with blue stripes going down the sides, and they could be adjusted so that they would not travel backwards, making them safe for beginners. I had been thrilled to try them on, and my parents had let me ride them in the house, in the wide hallway, which the floors had already been scratched up by continuous incidents of dragging toys across the floor and running around. With the roller-skates on, I had carefully guided myself, placing one hand on the wall, staring down at my feet. Whenever I put my hand on the same wall, I could almost experience the same sensation of exhilaration I had felt then; a feeling of nervousness mixed with anticipation. But once I left, it would not be possible to place my hand on the wall and recall the sense of enthusiasm.

As I tried to remember all of the other memories that were connected to different parts of the house, I recalled that day, a year ago, when my parents had told me we were moving.

“It’s not too far away,” they had said. “Wyckoff is close to Ringwood.” I had told all of my preschool friends that I was moving, and everyone stared at me with wide eyes, not comprehending what “moving” meant. My teacher had said that since I was five, it must be hard to understand what leaving was. I told her it meant saying goodbye, and she had smiled softly, telling me to cherish the moments I had left at this home. 

I slowly stood up, turning away from the wall, and walked into the hallway. I wondered if I will be able save all of my memories, even if each room and each hallway was now empty, looking nothing like they once had. I wondered if leaving this house meant that I must leave all of my experiences here as well. Five year old me was saying goodbye to this home in Ringwood, the only place I ever knew as “home.”

As I took one last look at my room, a tear rolled down my cheek, telling me that I should go before I embarrassed myself. My parents were making their last look around, checking that nothing was left behind.

A “house” is unimportant. It is only a construction of pieces of wood, shielding the inhabitants from harm and keeping them warm at night. But a “home” is much different. It is the place that I can go back to after a long day, and a place that has seen every aspect of my life. Saying goodbye was like leaving a part of my childhood. The winter of 2005 was when I realized that sometimes you get used to the things around you, and when it comes to say goodbye, you realize that you had taken it for granted.

The only memories I have with my first dog, the only experiences I have as a toddler, the only place that my childhood friends have visited; that was home. For those people that have travelled hundred of miles, finding their place in a new country, my move seems like a simple change. But sometimes, the simplest things are the hardest to let go. Sometimes you become so accustomed to everything around you that you do not even notice your home anymore. You do not think twice when getting out of bed, and walking to the bathroom, followed by going to the kitchen. You do not realize anything because life has become so routine based, and you do not appreciate your home. And that was what I had realized, after it was too late.

I got into the car and put on my seatbelt, looking out of the window one last time. I wish I could relive all of my memories. I wish I had cherished and appreciated every moment. I wish I could remember everything I had ever said and done here. I wish…

All those things I took for granted soon became things that I never saw again.