Saying goodbye to my childhood home

My childhood home.

My grandpa built this house. We moved in when I was 6 years old. My mom died here when I was 36. My brothers and my dad and I are currently packing it up and saying goodbye.

And it has been… fine! Surprisingly fine. Hard work, and super dusty, but punctuated with so much laughter (I always forget how funny my brothers are) and so many shared memories, and a beautiful coordination of effort. There have been so many glimmers: delicious snacks and running jokes and the satisfaction of clearing out 35 years of hoarded junk. We have worked so hard and blazed through the drudge, and now we’re nearly done. I’m so proud of us!

Tonight we go out for a fancy dinner to celebrate my dad’s 80th, tomorrow evening we light a giant bonfire filled with broken wooden furniture and random papers, on Thursday my brothers and I go for a 3 night hike on the Pondo trail while my dad gets time to say goodbye to his home.

I loved Durban with such a fierce passion that I wrote a book about it in my 20s: a love letter to Durban (hey there, Strange Nervous Laughter!) But now it’s time to say goodbye, and I am ready. How lucky am I to feel this way?

It’s the end of an era. It’s been a beautiful one ❤️