There is something special about moving out of a childhood home. Something beyond the bitter-sweet nostalgia. I have yet to name it. Maybe I never will.  

The “for sale” sign in the front yard didn’t seem real. Its bold red letters stared mockingly every time I pulled into the driveway. I’d wonder if this was the right decision.

Finally, after months of anticipation, the sign was pulled from the ground, wooden stake caked with mud, and tossed into our mounting pile of garbage. 

Things I thought we’d never throw away found their way to the trash heap. The excuse? “You can’t save everything.” And I guess that’s true. 

Moving day approached quickly. The weather started to cool, and I no longer had an excuse to avoid the shed. Leaves crunched underfoot as I trudged toward the back of the house. The small wooden shed loomed before me like so many broken promises. The door creaked as I pried it open, the smell of stale gasoline greeting me in waves. Everything was tucked neatly in rows— lawnmower, snow thrower, rake, trash can, pool supplies— cleaning should have been an easy task. My eyes fell on the make-shift work bench in the corner. 

I smirked. Years earlier, we’d organized this shed. Together, as a family. I’d looked anxiously to all of the supplies thrown on that table, some of them rusting. 

“Dad,” I’d asked, “are you ever going to clean off that table?”

“Maybe someday,” he’d mused “before I die.”

The way he smiled, it didn’t seem as funny as it should have been. 

I wonder if he’d known.