Dear Rental House,
You are small. I'm sorry if that hurts, but you are. When we moved in three years ago, we found that a good deal of our furniture could not fit inside you. Our bed frame and mattress, our dresser, one whole couch, and a desk all went back to Texas in the moving truck that had brought them here the day before. The driver said he'd donate them to charity at some point down the line, but secretly I think he's kept them to make his own portable bedroom in the back of his truck. He seemed the type.
You weren't always so small, of course. Almost 200 years ago when you were built, you were spacious: A grand and glorious house replete with bedrooms, dining rooms, parlors, and the like. But then someone had the idea of putting up a wall right down the middle of you and doubling your housing capacity while halving your housing space. Who wouldn't like that, right? Who, indeed.
Rental House, I don't like you. There, I said it. And I don't think I'm alone. Remember that young man, over a hundred years ago now, that young man who lived here with his parents? Remember that day, in 1905, that fine day in May when he hatcheted his mother to death in what would later be our living room? Then he went upstairs and shot his father five times, once in the head? Happily they didn't make guns very well back then and the father survived. Of course, they didn't make houses very well back then either, no offense. It is rumored in the publications of the time that the young man was unstable, which begs the question of what need a stable young man might have of taking a hatchet to his mom, doesn't it? But I think his stability is beside the point. I think he did it because his parents chose to live in you.
Rental House, you were not always sitting where you are now. No, about ninety years ago you were down the block, right where that five-lane street is now. Finding you a hindrance to the building of that street, yet not wanting to deny anyone the pleasure of living within you, the good people of this town moved you. They built you a big basement and then moved you on top of it, and who am I to complain if the two of you didn't match up exactly right? I mean, I can barely set a cup of coffee down in a saucer correctly. And if those gaps between you and your basement let in a little dirt, a little sunshine, and sometimes a little water, well that's just part of the charm in living in you. You charmer, you.
Oh, how I'm babbling on, Rental House. I'm sorry. I never was any good at break-ups. Because that's what this is, you know: a break-up. My family and I have found someone else. A real house, the kind you take home to meet your mom, the kind you buy. And buy it we did.
Rental House, simply put, we're through. I hope the new For Rent sign doesn't hurt much when we pound it into your front lawn. Well, not too much.