dear woodmore,

i fell in love with you, as we now often do, online. it was finals week, the fall of my senior year in college. and there you were.

you had a green door, like the townhouse i grew up in, before the HOA decided a neutral grey was more palatable. you were symmetrical and square, with a sleepy front porch, with trees all behind you, and some baby hydrangeas up front. you were the cutest house i had ever seen, and i knew i wanted to call you home. 

i wanted to meet you in person, so i did. it was ill-advised. 

i was not ready on paper. i’d never lived in your city or your state before. i had no reads on neighborhoods. i wasn’t preapproved. i hadn’t even been officially hired by, well, anyone yet. i was just a college kid, who desperately wanted to call you home.

i drove the four hours to get to you, my siblings in tow (you met the family, soon). i parked in the driveway. i knew. i stepped onto the porch. i knew. the realtor opened the door. i knew. 

i didn’t want to live anywhere else. you were it.

i prepared myself, as any reasonable person should’ve, that you would be gone by the time i was ready. it would be insane to expect any house — much less, the perfect one — to sit on the market for six months before i could actually move in. 

but january rolled around. and then february. and march. and april. and there you were, as if you were waiting for me like i was hoping for you. 

the second i was offered a job, i made an offer on you. looking back, it is truly a miracle that the people who had built you had a soft spot for teachers. i asked for help with closing costs. i couldn’t close for three more months because i wouldn’t start teaching till august. 

the second you and i went under contract together, the two houses next to you (your younger but taller siblings) went under contract too. 

i was so thankful, i cried. 

i bought you by myself with my teacher’s salary and the money i’d saved working as many jobs as i did when i was in school. i barely had the money left over to buy a washer for my clothes. 

but i didn’t care. 

i’d grown up with nothing but white walls, and every college apartment i’d had was some shade of noncommittal greige. i’d never been able to make a place my own, until you. so i became a regular at the sherwin williams six minutes away, and i did you up one gallon of paint at a time. 

tween me would’ve fainted if she could’ve seen you, vibrant and lively. even when it wasn’t your best color, you tried it on for me, so i could see for myself. you were mint and teal and pink, then green and blue, navy and yellow. you were modern, then classic, bohemian and vintage. you let me doll you up and patch over the holes when i changed my mind and put you in something new entirely. 

when work asked too much of me, you offered me rest; when lovers did the same, you offered me protection. when we were apart, i missed you. i finally knew what it meant to be homesick. 

you will always be the first place that ever felt like home and the first place that ever felt like mine. 

you were magic in the mornings, light dancing between the shadows of the leafy trees blowing in the breeze. you were magic in the sunset, sunbeams illuminating my everyday with the sweet reminder: life isn’t all so bad, is it? 

when i saw you emptied of all of my things — of memories, of nooks, of collections, of beds, of rugs, of art, of it all — it was still you: the home i fell in love with all those years ago. 

i wept on your floors as i finished packing. i was already late to sign you away. i ran out, locked the door behind me, and sat in the car. 

and i actually heard myself say, “you really should say goodbye.” 

so i turned off the ignition. and i climbed up your porch steps one more time. turned my key in the lock. leaned my forehead against your pretty green door.

i love you so much. you’ve been so good to me. and i really hope the next person who wears your doorstep loves you as much as i have. 

to the best and sweetest first home a 22-year-old could ever ask for, 

thank you for being mine.

— s