My husband and I are thinking of moving. We’re trying to decide if we’re ready to say goodbye to the house we’ve lived in for the past twenty-eight years and look for something smaller. Our home is filled with wonderful memories and at first thought, the thought of leaving it makes me sad. Yesterday afternoon I sat on the back deck for a while, allowing myself to wallow a little. I thought about the skateboard ramp that one of our boys built in the back part of the yard years and years ago. I thought about all the sleepovers our boys had and the rowdy teenagers that hung out here. I could almost hear the electric guitars and drum sets that occupied the biggest room in the house during the time that they were in high school. I visualized my husband’s happy face as he rode his new riding mower around this nearly an acre of yard for the first time. I reminisced about the volley ball games and the big net we stretched out when we had large gatherings. I mentally saw the many dogs we’ve had, running around out there. I remembered my friend Molly sitting on the lawn on the Fourth of July just a little over a year ago, talking and laughing, barely six months before she died. I looked fondly at the slope our grandchildren used for sledding when they weren’t yet old enough to walk down the road to the real hill. We’ve made a lot of physical improvements on this house over the years — and finally it’s pretty much just the way we want it to be. But might it not be time to turn this warm, welcoming home over to another family that will fill it with love and laughter as we did and who will enjoy it just as much? I think it might be.