Four days. I'm sitting here in an empty house. I've got a bed, a kitchen table, electricity, running water, a roof over my head. It's perfect. I'm satisfied. It's hard to describe what this feels like. This house. I feel like I owe it something. After all, it provided a venue for the creation of memories.

I'm staring at the place where our Family Room couch used to be. I remember sitting on it, catching up on all the missed 7th Heaven episodes with my family. Lounging on it while listening to Joanna practice violin in the next room. Making my mom sit on it while listening to my piano pieces before rushing to Mr. D's performance class. Sleeping on it with the TV on during those scary nights alone. Hoping for 5 minutes of rest during the exhaustion of senior year only to have a Chicago Tribune reporter choose to do a phone interview in the middle of it. I look back on those newspaper articles--Tribune, Daily Herald, SunTimes, Libertyville Review...--and laugh. I'm pretty sure all those interviews were done sprawled out on the couch, eyes closed, an arm draped over my forehead, a leg dangling over the back. Good thing they didn't send the photographers over until a few days later. Yikes.

And I recall similar memories in every place in the house.

Moving out of this house means more than a physical relocation or even the sentimental value. It's my house. And I'm its resident. These walls saw me grow up. I trust these walls with my conversations. I know my friends will have a good time here. And all we do in response is move out? Obviously, houses don't have feelings and aren't composed of living substances (unless you have termites or something), but still. It's hard on the heart.

Copland's Appalachian Spring is playing on my computer right now. I remember hearing this performed at the Aspen Music Festival last summer. I had my eyes closed and kept thinking over & over, "This is life. This is THE life. The life I have to LIVE and not just get through. What more can I ask for?" I didn't want the piece to end.

Life is meant to have these moments in it where you just close your eyes and listen to Appalachian Spring at your kitchen table in an empty house where your fondest memories were created. A couch would be nice, but this is already perfect. I'm satisfied.