If you follow our Facebook page, or even just glance at it occasionally, you probably know that we’re undergoing a major renovation in Savannah.  We put in a handicapped accessible restroom and completely redid the men’s.  We’ve gutted the women’s restroom and are putting it back while redoing Parlor B after redoing Parlor C.  There will eventually be new furniture everywhere with all new flooring (except in the foyer . . . we’re not allowed to use dynamite and that’s what it would take to remove the pavers)—and a lot more space because now we have access to a once inaccessible area.

That additional space comes from the apartment, a place most folks never realized existed.  When the building was constructed in 1977 and ‘78, an apartment was included in which my parents would reside.  I’m not sure why my father thought that was a good idea other than he didn’t have to get out in the rain to go to work; I think my mother approved because it was easier to start from scratch than redo their entire house.  There was a combination den and kitchen, a living room with a separate dining room, and a master bedroom and bath on the first floor.  That’s right—on the first floor.  Upstairs there was a sitting area and two nicely sized bedrooms with their own full baths and walk-in closets.  And now, all that space is available.  Not empty, but available.

The first area to fall victim to the renovation was the master bath.  With some sawing through the wall and a lot of chiseling in the concrete, it morphed into the handicapped restroom.  It was a little disconcerting seeing the tiny corner tub hauled away and placed in storage and the sleek beige toilet and the poured marble sinks disappear.  The one inch square tiles on the floor were jackhammered into oblivion and the corner shower that was built to accommodate my father’s height was dismantled.  I cleaned out their respective vanities, tossing hairspray and toothpaste that had been hidden away for years, packing away my father’s tattered manicure kit with the zipper that had come unsown and was hanging loosely from the leather case.  The front few feet of the bath were walled off to become the vending machine area for the lounge that will eventually live in their bedroom and the den and kitchen.  The families we serve will no longer have to climb the stairs for a Coke and a candy bar or a cup of coffee.

It was more disconcerting to move their clothes to the closets upstairs, to rummage through my father’s ties and shoes and suits and the pants my mother favored in her later years . . . and the boxes and boxes of shoes . . . and the purses that still held the tissues and hard candy and other odds and ends she tended to accumulate.  It was hard to watch the closets being deconstructed after the bed was disassembled and the dresser and chest moved to another room.  And again there was the sawing, opening their world to the world at large by creating a door that would lead from the main building into what had once been their lives.

But this week . . . this week has been the hardest of all.  The pots and pans and dishes were all packed away and I knew it was coming.  I knew there would be a day when I walked into the kitchen to find the kitchen wasn’t there.  When the cabinets would be removed so they could be reconfigured for the new lounge.  When the counter tops would be gone and the sink and the ovens and the stove top moved from their homes of over 30 years.  I knew.  Really, I did.  But knowing and actually seeing are two entirely different things.  I walked into an area that once held the aromas of home cooked meals, of feasts to celebrate every conceivable holiday, a place where we gathered as a family and the kids watched T.V. while the adults prepared the food and set the table, running over each other in anticipation of the deliciousness to come.  I walked into an area filled with memories to find that everything tangible was being removed.

It is difficult to pack up the past, to relegate to a box or someone else’s safekeeping what once mattered to someone who mattered to you.  It can make your chest tighten and the tears well up in your eyes and the past spring into the present.  But it is also a necessity.  As nice as it would be, the apartment cannot remain as a shrine to life as it once was.  As difficult as it may be, life continues to move forward and, if we refuse to move with it, we will most certainly be left behind.  Yes, it’s going to hurt even when we wait years to begin the process. No, it doesn’t mean we are being disrespectful to what once was.  It simply means we have acknowledged that, despite our best efforts and fondest wishes, the only constant in life is change—and the greatest change of all is also the hardest to accept.

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