When Healing Requires You to Write a Letter To Your House

Dear House,

I miss you today. 

I miss you every day, but now that I have a day 100% to myself (my first since the fire), I miss you even more.

Last night a friend called. She gets little messages from people who have passed over. She’s never had one for me. Until last night. She said my dad told her to tell me he said, “I’m so proud of you.”

My friend only knew my dad through my stories. He died four years before I even met her.

She didn’t have a kind, loving father so she didn’t even know how a father like him would even sound. But she described his voice. She heard him. 

He’s proud of how I’m handling losing you.

I wouldn’t have had you, dear House, had it not been for my dad. It was his biggest wish for me to buy a house. For years he sent me books like “How to Buy a House with Zero Down.” I always assumed I’d wait until I was married and there were two incomes to handle the financial responsibility.

Five years after he passed away, though, I entered escrow to buy you with help from his estate. I know he was proud then too.

You became a vessel for my dad’s love. 

You held cards, poems, letters, notes he wrote to me since I was a young teen and finally knew to hold onto such things. You held his distinct handwriting. I loved his handwriting.

You held the letter he wrote to his younger brother who was just a boy at the time, when he was in the Navy and had just been to Naples, Italy for the first time.

You held his art collection. Yes, I know most of it was in the garage awaiting my attention, but several pieces were in the house – and they brought me so much joy. 

You held the first piece of art he bought for me (to encourage me to collect art) when I moved into my first apartment at Berkeley.

You held his beloved Pentax camera and the thousands of photos he took with it. 

I don’t know if you noticed but I had very few photos around the house. But I had three photos of him - at various dad ages - in the heart of the house, the kitchen. 

You held his laptops that I regretfully never culled for his writings. He was such a good writer.

You held his wallet. That wallet. 

You held the gifts he bought me when we went on our once-in-a-lifetime-father-daughter trip to India. 

You held the lovely tablecloths and napkins he found in Russia for me.

You held his t-shirt I slept in that seemed to smell like him far beyond when it should, and always felt like he was hugging me. He was his v-neck white undershirts. 

I always felt his presence in you.

Thank you for holding his presence, thank you for holding his love.

I know he - like you - is forged in fire in my heart forever. 

And I miss you both today.

love, b.