My parents' house went on the market today. We've spent most of the past two weeks getting it ready to sell, and as relieved as I am to have that bit over with, now there are weeks and perhaps months of constant tidiness for last-minute showings with which to contend. And the spartan emptiness we've designed---so the house looks spacious and clean---leaves me feeling that our home is a little shabby.

Not that it's ever quite been home. At least, not in comparison to the house we left in Chicago. We put so much of ourselves into that little Cape Cod---the landscaping, the garage, bathrooms and front porch and windows and roof. And I have so many memories of curling up at the top of the stairs in the sunlight and laughing in the doorways of the kitchen and sitting in the rock garden behind the garage, popping ripe raspberries in my mouth. I've always loved the backyard of this Texas house, but the inside was so large and cumbersome and inefficient and impersonal...even after we cluttered up the place with photos and gewgaws.

The house my mom is moving to feels much more like that Chicago house. It's not too big and the rooms flow together in a way that will allow us to seat as many people at table(s) as we wish. The backyard is spacious, but not too large for my mom to take care of once Elessar heads to college in the fall. And, best of all, it has a gardenia bush.

One of the last conversations my parents had was about gardenias. My dad was feeling frustrated about not having any business for his company, and going outside to smell the gardenias in our yard never failed to cheer him up. By the time we looked at the new house, all of our gardenia blossoms had faded. But there was one blossom left on this bush. I think I've mentioned I don't believe in signs, but...gardenias are extraordinarily good at cheering one up.

Oh, and also? There's a speakeasy panel in the front door. See?