The Edge of the Door

In my grandparents' farmhouse, there was a door that opened from the kitchen to a bedroom that was always called "Popo's room".  (My grandfather.)  It wasn't a normal internal door.  It had divided panes of glass with a shade on the back side to promote privacy.  And on the opening edge of that door were the height marks of generations of Covill children and grandchildren.  When we gathered for holidays, the children were measured and marked on the edge of that door.

Last week or so, I woke up thinking about that door.  When we sold the farm, there was no way to retrieve the door...and nothing to be done with it even if we could.  I realized in that moment that it was gone forever...a whole bunch of family history was beyond my grasp, and I had never grieved its passing.

In fact, I never really grieved the passing of the farm, in our family for well over 150 years.  I was raised by a military wife/mother who taught us never to look back....and so I haven't.  But sometimes, things hit that should have been resolved years ago.

I hope that door is still there, and I hope someone in the family can find something to do with it before the entire house is torn down.  I'm not sure anyone cares but me.  I was just shocked by my reaction when I woke up thinking about it.