Want to catch up on this particular story line? Start here.

As I mentioned in my previous post, from the moment we accepted the offer on the farm to the July morning we drove away, there was a truly insane amount of work to do. But what does it look like to do the even larger emotional work of actually letting go? I want to give you a little window into that with a few images and stories of those last few days and hours on the farm.

The work was communal and at the same time, deeply personal. As the physical toil was nearing its completion, everyone took time to grieve and to say their goodbyes. Sometimes we would do it together, sharing a story or striking out for a trip down the lane or into the back woods to drink in its wild beauty one more time.

But other times we had to give each other the space and silence to somehow integrate its parting into our souls…

A lot of people have asked how we helped Julia process letting go of the farm. This was something that we obviously had to be intentional about. She is an incredibly intuitive kid; so you can’t count her out, thinking that she’s oblivious of what’s going on at any given time. In fact, it’s my suspicion that she often has a better read of the room than anyone else. But the challenge was to contextualize it into something she could understand more concretely.

It took a little thought, but the answer revealed itself in the ceramic head of a pig.

This little tchatzke had been found by my mom twenty five or more years ago and was the spot at the kitchen sink for the hand towels ever since. Even after she died, it had been a comforting memory of the care she had put into every space in the house – despite a limited budget. In fact, that worthless ceramic pig was in the top ten of my picks from the family heirlooms.

But Julia had given it even more honor than I. Before every meal at the farm, she adopted a little ritual. She would pull a chair up to the sink, wash her hands and dry them using the towel dutifully provided by the pig. And then, as if in thanks, she would caress the pig behind the ear and ask to be lifted up to give it a kiss on the nose.

Julia started that at four years old – not long after she was able to stand on her own. And in that silly, commonplace sacrament, my mother’s love crossed the chasm of time and space and connected with the granddaughter she had never laid eyes on.

I put off telling Julia that we wouldn’t be coming back to the farm until just before she and Jocelyn were leaving for the last time on the 4th of July. I’m certain the delay was from my fear that I wouldn’t be able to hold it together when I shared with her.

With Jocelyn and Lauren tearily standing alongside, I knelt down beside Julia. I looked into her eyes and shared the news with her in a broken and lilting voice. I told her we could take the pig down and she could take it home and we would put it up in the hall near her coat hook where she could reach it. And whenever she missed the farm, she could give her pig a kiss and remember how much fun we had there.

On her last walk out of the farmhouse door, our daughter carried her touchstone of the farm and her grandmother’s love in her hands; and it has a place of honor in our home.

After the auction company came for everything we didn’t take, all that remained were empty rooms and bare walls and quiet echos of the memories made there, fading into silence.

The Cook family’s time to paint the art of their lives on the Farm on Willow Road was done; and its canvas had been cleared for something… new.

Perhaps the one thing that made this whole hellish process a little easier were the hands into which we entrusted the farm.

As I mentioned previously, the selling process unfolded through the late spring and we got many inquiries, but not a lot of serious pursuit. But through all of the ups and downs, Fate and Providence knew that there was only one acceptable kind of buyer for the Farm on Willow Road: a young couple dreaming of finding a plot of land to put down roots and raise their family. A next generation “Bob and Mabel Cook,” if you will.

The Kennedys came from a family with deep roots in the township just to the east of ours. And it took every last bit of energy and financial wherewithal they had to make it happen. But once we heard their story, we were rooting for them and did everything we could to accommodate their timing to make the deal go through.

Once the agreement was inked and the process was well along, we broke protocol a bit and invited them to come out for a curated tour of the house and property. He works at GM and she has her Masters of Social Work with a focus on Art Therapy. They came into the house with a quiet that bespoke almost reverence.

There was an air of deep respect as we walked them through – this time not with a realtor, but with the farm’s keepers of over half a century. But even in their deference to us, one could see the wheels of creativity turning as they looked round corners and into new rooms.

And through it all, the older of the two boys tried his best to contain his wiggles. But once they got back outside he was able to run and explore. In one of his orbits by me, he excitedly came up and exclaimed, “This place is great! Can we come back?”

Oh – he had no idea.

In the wonder of that little boy as he surveyed what would be his new home, new dreams for the Farm on Willow Road began to emerge and grow on that languid July day. It was good and even healing to witness – even if we weren’t going to be a part of them.

They took occupancy three weeks later.

And as I promised at the beginning of this winding and bittersweet story, everything is as it should be.