Dear little house,

We found you just over two years ago. You were white with yellow trim then, smiling at us like a spot of sunshine in the shady streets of a quaint southern neighborhood. On your street, the trees are older than the government and their massive limbs drip whispy masses of Spanish moss that reach the sidewalks in some places. Our young family stepped inside one early spring day and you instantly swept us away with what real-estate agents like to call "loads of charm." You were a sweet, sweet bungalow with caramel-colored pine floors finished in wax, molding around every doorway and detail, updated bathroom fixtures, three bedrooms, two bathrooms antique light covers--oh, how you charmed us.

We bought you at what we now know was the highest point of the housing bubble of the first part of our century. We signed our mortgage paperwork, grabbed the keys and spent the first night we possibly could on the floor with pizza and sleeping bags just because you were ours and we couldn't wait for the furniture to arrive. We went right to work with paintbrushes to add color and character to each room, ordered solid-surface countertops and new fixtures for the kitchen and found one of those chandaliers with tiny lampshades on it for the diningroom.

No offense, but your back and front yards were atrocious and they begged for our attention. We bought a storage shed that looks a little like a children's playhouse to stowe our newly essential lawncare equipment and got to work sprucing up the grass, carving out some flowerbeds, planting shrubs and building a sandbox. Later we tackled the jungle out back, which was filled with old brick and mortar, tangles of vines and weeds and a shabby palmetto that we just couldn't seem to kill. Ultimately we hired professional landscapers to give us a vibrant backyard that now provides a welcoming space to roll in the grass, watch racoons and squirrels, dig, play and swing every day. For a time it seemed like whenever N or I returned from a trip the other would have some new home improvement project completed as a surprise.

Then, at some unidentifiable point, you just felt perfect. And you still do.

You're cool in the summertime, cozy in the winter. You're bright and cheerful. You're the right size. The neighborhood couldn't be prettier and the neighbors couldn't be nicer. You're close to work, church, parks, groceries, friends and coffee. You're home all right. And we like you.

But it's time old friend. The Navy adventure beckons. We're moving on. The for-sale sign stands right between those two majestic oaks out front. And so far there aren't throngs of cute little families beating on your front door to have a look at what might be their perfect starter home. No. They have a lot of choices. I'm told you may be a hard sell right now--the hardest since a time before my birth, when real estate wasn't worth much I'm told. I know, I know, you want us to stay and love you for just a while longer until the market improves, but we can't. The papers say we're due in California by October. That doesn't give us much time together. We'll be OK. You won't be lonely for long. You'll find somebody new, just like the last time, and the time before, and for who knows how many times since they built you in 1919.

As for us? It's going to hurt a little, leaving you behind without a new home to go to right away. It will take some time, but we're going to find a house out there on the west coast. There won't be Spanish moss and the neighbors won't say "y'all" and "fixin' to" in the loveable way they do here, but it's going to be fine. We'll hang our pictures, plug in the lamps, find a new place for the Christmas tree and hunt for parks and a coffee house. It will take time, but we'll learn the smells, sounds and rhythms of that new place and we'll find home again.

For now, let's look on the bright side. We have one last summer together. Let's race Hotwheels together on the hardwoods and watch movies in the livingroom. We'll squeeze lemonade, scoop icecream and cook lots of pasta with tomatoes in the kitchen. Let's build forts in the playroom and let the kids get good and messy in the sandbox and kiddie pool. Then, by the end of summer, when it's time to go, you'll be so worn out, you'll be ready for a break from us. And, who knows? Your new owners might be a nice, quiet couple with no pets, no kiddos. You deserve that. You're old. It's time you had a rest.