She moved out this weekend. I was expecting the empty room. I wasn't expecting the removal of the heart. The emptiness in not in all the stuff that is gone, but the personality, the life, the color, the enthusiasm, the goals and dreams, the spirit, the heart of the daughter who lived in the room. All of the stuff and color that was the expression of her is gone, moved to another state. The room is quiet, empty, devoid of life.
Two rooms were emptied this weekend. Another daughter, already gone four months now, her stuff going with the other daughter, their things condensed into one trailer. Her things were packed by Skype, holding things up to the computer screen, asking, "Do you want this? What about this?"
That room, however, had an instant personality switch. Her brother said, "You're leaving? That's sad. Can I have your room?"
What was an artist's studio with cartoon and cowgirl touches, is now horses and planes. The closet was hung with a few dresses, mostly colorful tops. Now, it is camouflage uniforms and dark jackets. A completely different heart, a different mood, with new goals and dreams posted on the four walls.
I knew in my head that the people are what make a home, not the style of decorating or the things hung on the walls. This weekend, we had a vivid picture of the personality swings a room can have.
It is not the stuff that matters. The life lived in that room, yes, expressed by some of the stuff, but mostly expressed by the person within those walls: with spirit and heart and goals and dreams and thoughts and personality all their own. Unmatched, irreplaceable, unique, vital; the heart, the life of a room.