All of my artwork has been removed from the walls, and I stand in a pared-down version of my living room, knee-deep in bubble wrap and packing tape. Tomorrow when the moving truck comes, I’ll be leaving my home of the past 24 years. This small brownstone apartment has been a haven for me, as well as a source of pride.
Built in 1888, my condo is rich with Victorian details, from the wainscoting and ornamental fireplace mantle, to the ceiling medallion in the living room. A young woman has bought my place. My realtor tells me she fell madly in love the moment she walked into the living room, awash in sunlight from the large curved bay window that overlooks Beacon Street. The new owner is me, twenty-five years ago, and I am grateful that someone who loves this space, just as I have, will be living here. To you, my younger self, who is about to cross this threshold with all your hopes and dreams, I say this: each time you make yourself a cup of tea in your kitchen, watch the sunset from the roof deck, open your home to friends, know that one has come before you who knows exactly how you feel. If you are half as happy as I have been here, you will be truly blessed.
As for me, I am ready to open a new door. And my new home has unique features of its own. Two years shy of being a century old, this two-family house has retained much of its original detail and character. Warm wood trim adorns each window and doorway. Both the living and dining rooms boast bay windows. The dining room’s built-in has lovely period leaded glass, and a butler’s pantry adjoins it with the kitchen.
This house needs no time, no holidays, no new memories to become my home. It already is… Like many older homes in the Boston metro area, this is a “family home” – with my brother living on the second floor and me on the first floor.
My arrival has my Italian-American next-door neighbors nodding in approval, “That’s nice,” they said, “keeping it in the family.”