My grandpa owned a lake house my entire life. From what I hear, they found out my mom was pregnant with me the year they bought it. He’d be able to know exactly how long they had it just by looking at me. “25 years!” he’d proclaim (when I was 25).
The timing of them selling the house almost seemed serendipitous. I can’t imagine what it would have been like if they had had the responsibility of upkeep once his health started to deteriorate.
I’m pretty sure this was my last weekend spent at the house. We didn’t know when it would sell but we knew it might be our last trip when we were there back in 2014. I was emotional but it didn’t feel real. I wanted to cling to every piece of it. I took photos of every room. I remember thinking, after it sold, how weird it was that I’d never go there again. A place that felt so safe, that contained so many memories, would be inaccessible. In a way, I’d never want to visit that lake again. If I couldn’t be in the house, exactly as it always was, I wanted nothing to do with it.
When my grandpa died last year, it felt like that…times a million. It’s a feeling like no other. Something so impactful was taken from you, with warning. But you still feel blindsided. I wonder if anyone truly does feel closure.
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