A Garden of Memories: Selling the Home of Someone I Loved

And when the oregano and the purple coneflowers come up again next spring—I’ll be watching, whispering a remembrance.

There are moments in life where your personal and professional worlds gently collide—and this was one of them.

Recently, I was entrusted with the sale of a home that was more than just another listing. It was the home of a family member whom I loved. There were many, many deeply held memories in this home. It wasn't a client’s home. She, and her home, were a large part of my life for 35 years. We shared meals and laughter and family tragedies in her home.

For over 30 years, my family and I visited our Aunt Julie. We always, ALWAYS had Easter Sunday dinner at her artistic and beautiful Hoboken brownstone. She was a great cook and took pride in her beloved hobby and had taken many professional courses to enhance her skills over her lifetime. We often visited Hoboken to see the views of New York City and try different restaurants. So many memories of laughter and talking and fun.

Getting ready to assess the value of her brownstone and showcase its charm stirred a wave of thoughts and emotions. As I neared her home, sensory memories resurfaced with great intensity. The scent of her amazing Italian sauces returned to mind. Sharp, vivid memories of her grand summer parties in the communal, enclosed garden behind her building captured my thoughts and feelings.

As I opened the door to her condominium, memories flooded back of how she had decorated her sanctuary...her interesting loft bedroom and her office with her iMac, where she did her creative work as an art director. Memories about her travels in Europe. Memories of Sunday family summer walks along the Hudson on Sinatra Boulevard. And there were the memories of her garden—the one she tended with such care. She grew many aromatic cooking herbs: basil, oregano, parsley. And beautiful perennial flowers: purple coneflower, black-eyed susan, sunflowers, begonia, fern, hosta... Plus the kitchen held memories of how she would extend her table, and we would all gather around to enjoy her amazing meals, the room filled with laughter.

Unexpectedly, a rush of aching grief was there, too. The reminders of conversations we never finished. Of moments we disagreed. Of the complicated love that so often defines long, real relationships. And the reminder of the quieter, harder times during her illness.

And I could feel her own grief that was palplable throughout the illness and near the end of life. And I could feel our helplessness at the onslaught of the fatal disease that was, of course, unstoppable.

Showing her home to numerous people during the Open House was a complicated emotional time for me.

But then, something sweet and sad and beautiful happened. Neighbors began to come by. People I knew from being in the garden and around her home so often over the years. Her friends and neighbors came to say goodbye and express their condolences and support the family. They brought flowers, memories and and stories. One recalled how she and Julie were really the main backyard gardeners and had created the amazing floral space over many years, together. Another neighbor remembered how she comforted them after a loss, with soup and a steady presence.

Eventually, people from all over the building came over to tell me how helpful she was and what an amazing woman she was and to offered their condolences. It was like another memorial service. These good wishes both buoyed me and saddened me.

Selling the home wasn't easy. Not because of the logistics, but because it holds the shape of someone I loved. But I also know this: the buyers didn't just see a condominium. They felt the warmth that still lingers in the kitchen, in the garden, the care built into the walls, and the spirit of someone who fed and tended everything she touched.

This is my honor. My goodbye. My offering.

And when the oregano and the purple coneflowers come up again next spring—I’ll be watching, whispering a remembrance.