Home

I had no tears for the house I left behind in New York when I moved. That surprised me. After all those years of living in it, shouldn't I have felt some emotion about leaving my home with its fireplace, berry trees and willows, and the big, old-fashioned kitchen with the trestle table where my children did their homework when they were small?

The day of the title closing on the house, I locked the door and never looked back as I drove away. I felt that a great burden had been lifted from my shoulders. The house had become too big, the steps in a colonial were becoming a nuisance, taxes had skyrocketed, and the cold weather seemed endless and confining.

It had been a tough and exhausting year. Selling the house took months of constant visits by more than 100 brokers and prospective buyers who criticized the décor and looked into our closets. Dismantling a home was a big task. Selling, donating, and packing all the household goods and mementos took endless hours. Moving was a pain. I hope I never have to do it again.

Saying good-bye was hard. I tried to see everyone at least once, but I begged off if people suggested farewell dinners. I couldn't bear the parting, which, instead of sweet sorrow, began to feel like wrenching pain.

My little 5-year-old grandson looked up at me and said, "Grandma, are you moving forever?" He knew what that meant because he had just moved, too.

"Yes," I said in a choked voice. "But I'll come to visit and so will you."

Once I got to Florida, the work began anew. There were 144 cartons to unpack. Stores were far away, the faces and streets unfamiliar, and buying a garbage pail and a ladder took up half a day. Finding a barbershop and buying a chicken and picture hooks filled the other half.

Every morning at dawn, workmen tramped through the house making adjustments and making a mess. I put things in assigned places and then couldn't remember where they were. I felt out of sorts, antsy, and the work I love -- writing -- never got done. Moving my computer, books, and desk seemed to disturb the muse.

I am not a mechanically oriented person so learning to use six new appliances at one time was annoying. Radio and TV stations were unfamiliar. The New York Times on Sunday seemed like manna from heaven.

After several weeks, I should have adjusted but I hadn't. I felt as if I'd rented a beautiful new suite at a resort and would be going "home" soon. But where was home? It wasn't here. I thought of the lyrics of one of my favorite Neil Diamond songs. "L.A.'s fine but it ain't mine. New York's mine but it ain't home no more." That's how I felt -- somewhere in the middle, disconnected.

The cartons were emptied, pictures hung, and old familiar furniture mixed with Florida pieces. I met neighbors, social life began, the weather was great but I felt homeless and lonely. Everywhere I went, the people were strangers. At parties, I met 30 people at once and struggled to remember names. Favorite restaurants, doctors, a beauty parlor, temple, and clubs were no more. In one swift move, I had cut all ties and felt as if I was in another country. As the walls echoed with the laughter of new acquaintances eating at the very same table I'd always used, I still felt alien to the place.

On the patio one day, I was not talking much.

"Are you missing the old house?" my husband asked.

I shook my head. "I miss the people," I said. "The house meant nothing without them."

I realized that once we emptied the house of our belongings, it became an empty shell -- a shell of a life that only became meaningful when filled with people and events over years.

"You expect too much," he said. "It's too soon." And it was.

I gave up expecting each morning to wake up and feel "I'm home." That couldn't happen yet. A house is not a home until people make it so. Family and friends are what give a place life. Until then, it's just a building and that's what this new place would be until family and friends from up north came to visit, until I made new friends, until I could find my way to the bathroom at night in the dark, until I was familiar with the creaks and quirks of the new dwelling, and until I spent some festivals and holidays here with people.

In the meantime, I tried not to chastise myself for an occasional tear. At least I knew that I wasn't "homesick." I was just not "at home" yet.

Little by little, things began to change. I encouraged new friendships and celebrated a few holidays in the new place. I joined a temple and became active there. I bought a Webcam and saw my grandchildren on the computer. I began to write again.

Brilliant sunlight poured into the house through glass doors and windows, lighting up everything inside. When the grass was cut, I opened the door to let the fresh smell into the house. I fell in love with the new sounds of rain hitting the roof tiles and birds that sing in the night.

I built another life and one day, I turned the key in my lock, opened the door, and finally said, "It's good to be home."

Toby Rosenstrauch, an award-winning columnist, lives in Boynton Beach, Fla.