It Was Our Castle and Our Keep...

We sold our house today. Not the Event Horizon; the house on Portage Avenue in Staten Island, where I grew up. The house that my mother and father bought together in 1972. The place that they brought me when I came out of the hospital as an infant. The place that I was able to call home for the first thirty years of my life.

Last night, I caught a red-eye flight from Phoenix to NYC to be here for the closing. I have been co-owner of this house since 1994, when my father transferred his half of the house to me, so I had come to sign the papers. Technically, I did not have to fly out for the closing; I could have signed all the forms in advance and sent them in. However, it seemed appropriate for me to be here at the end.

I landed at JFK early this morning and took a taxi to Portage Avenue one last time. The movers had already come the day before, so the house was mostly empty. A few pieces of furniture -- like the kitchen table, a dresser, a desk, and a few bookshelves -- were left behind for the new owners. I took my last shower in that house, then did my own version of a final ritual.

With camera in hand, I went through each room of the house. In every room, I took pictures. No furniture now, really... just the house itself. More importantly, though, I spent time in each room remembering. Some rooms had more memories than others, especially my old bedroom. I made sure to recall at least one recent memory as well as at least one old memory in each room: Grampa sitting in his chair in the family room; the hole I'd put in the bedroom wall (long since repaired) when I accidentally punched through it during a late-night fight with Mom; the corner of the living room where Eric and I used to play video games and hung NES cartridge boxes on the wall; the small fire I'd set in my bedroom when I was twelve; my first kiss (with Amanda Kyle) sitting on my bed; sleeping on the backyard patio the night I came back after running away for three weeks in 1991; the dining room table where I had done my homework in elementary school; the basement wall that I had used to display Iron Man v.1 #1 - #40.

When we were ready to head into Manhattan to close the deal, Mom said a very appropriate final speech: "We've had good memories and we've had bad memories here. Goodbye, house." And she kissed one of the walls. It nearly brought me to tears then, but we had work to do. It does make me cry now.

Selling the house was Mom's idea, and I think it was a good one. She raised two children there, but they grew up and left years ago. It's too big for just her now. She had been planning this for some time; I got much of my closure in January 2004 when I moved all of my things out of the house in preparation for putting the house on the market. Even though it was not a surprise, even though it is a good idea... that doesn't make me any less sad to leave the place. It has been a place I have called home for my entire life until now. For Mom, it has been the place she has lived for most of her life. While drawing pentacles in my bedroom, to free up the energy stored there, I thought that even though I am sad, at least it is just a house, not that anyone has actually died. Then I thought again; it is very much like somebody has died. There are decades of experience and memories in that house that can never be replaced and a level of familiarity that I do not have with any other place. My relationship to it was unique, just like my relationship to an individual person.

In the downstairs bathroom, Mom had four pieces of soap shaped like seashells that had sat for years in the soapdish. It was decorative soap, not meant to be used. This morning, I saw that the soap was still there, so I took two pieces and put them in my pocket. Later in the day, Mom told me that she'd noticed they were gone -- I can't believe how she'd spot such a tiny detail. She wasn't mad, though. She said it was a good idea and took the other two pieces, one for her and one to give to Eric. A token of our old home.

At the closing, I finally met the buyers. One of them, Patrick, will be staying in my old bedroom. When I was six years old, Mom's boyfriend bought me a plaque saying: "MATTHEW MALEK, PENTHOUSE" and mounted it on my bedroom door. I tried to remove it when I moved my things out so that I could take it with me. However, twenty-five years later it was still well fastened in its place. So I left it. Patrick was pleased to hear that; he said that he liked the sign and plans to leave it up on the door...

It Was Our Castle and Our Keep...

We sold our house today. Not the Event Horizon; the house on Portage Avenue in Staten Island, where I grew up. The house that my mother and father bought together in 1972. The place that they brought me when I came out of the hospital as an infant. The place that I was able to call home for the first thirty years of my life.

Last night, I caught a red-eye flight from Phoenix to NYC to be here for the closing. I have been co-owner of this house since 1994, when my father transferred his half of the house to me, so I had come to sign the papers. Technically, I did not have to fly out for the closing; I could have signed all the forms in advance and sent them in. However, it seemed appropriate for me to be here at the end.

I landed at JFK early this morning and took a taxi to Portage Avenue one last time. The movers had already come the day before, so the house was mostly empty. A few pieces of furniture -- like the kitchen table, a dresser, a desk, and a few bookshelves -- were left behind for the new owners. I took my last shower in that house, then did my own version of a final ritual.

With camera in hand, I went through each room of the house. In every room, I took pictures. No furniture now, really... just the house itself. More importantly, though, I spent time in each room remembering. Some rooms had more memories than others, especially my old bedroom. I made sure to recall at least one recent memory as well as at least one old memory in each room: Grampa sitting in his chair in the family room; the hole I'd put in the bedroom wall (long since repaired) when I accidentally punched through it during a late-night fight with Mom; the corner of the living room where Eric and I used to play video games and hung NES cartridge boxes on the wall; the small fire I'd set in my bedroom when I was twelve; my first kiss (with Amanda Kyle) sitting on my bed; sleeping on the backyard patio the night I came back after running away for three weeks in 1991; the dining room table where I had done my homework in elementary school; the basement wall that I had used to display Iron Man v.1 #1 - #40.

When we were ready to head into Manhattan to close the deal, Mom said a very appropriate final speech: "We've had good memories and we've had bad memories here. Goodbye, house." And she kissed one of the walls. It nearly brought me to tears then, but we had work to do. It does make me cry now.

Selling the house was Mom's idea, and I think it was a good one. She raised two children there, but they grew up and left years ago. It's too big for just her now. She had been planning this for some time; I got much of my closure in January 2004 when I moved all of my things out of the house in preparation for putting the house on the market. Even though it was not a surprise, even though it is a good idea... that doesn't make me any less sad to leave the place. It has been a place I have called home for my entire life until now. For Mom, it has been the place she has lived for most of her life. While drawing pentacles in my bedroom, to free up the energy stored there, I thought that even though I am sad, at least it is just a house, not that anyone has actually died. Then I thought again; it is very much like somebody has died. There are decades of experience and memories in that house that can never be replaced and a level of familiarity that I do not have with any other place. My relationship to it was unique, just like my relationship to an individual person.

In the downstairs bathroom, Mom had four pieces of soap shaped like seashells that had sat for years in the soapdish. It was decorative soap, not meant to be used. This morning, I saw that the soap was still there, so I took two pieces and put them in my pocket. Later in the day, Mom told me that she'd noticed they were gone -- I can't believe how she'd spot such a tiny detail. She wasn't mad, though. She said it was a good idea and took the other two pieces, one for her and one to give to Eric. A token of our old home.

At the closing, I finally met the buyers. One of them, Patrick, will be staying in my old bedroom. When I was six years old, Mom's boyfriend bought me a plaque saying: "MATTHEW MALEK, PENTHOUSE" and mounted it on my bedroom door. I tried to remove it when I moved my things out so that I could take it with me. However, twenty-five years later it was still well fastened in its place. So I left it. Patrick was pleased to hear that; he said that he liked the sign and plans to leave it up on the door...