I stared down a demon recently.

When Queen E. passed I knew selling the family homestead was another reality I needed to deal with.

I had completely renovated the Connecticut home before her unexpected death.

I sold and then proceeded to dream about the long-standing family home since I passed it on to unknown people.

I frequently would awaken during the night drenched from a repetitive nightmare about the house creating a true confidence conundrum.

Why did this house have a hold on me?

I had not lived there in decades…I visited it frequently, but there was no bad juju associated with the nearly 100 year-old home. Growing up  it wasn’t always lollipops and roses, but it wasn’t traumatic.

I still often travel to Connecticut for various reasons.

My parents have taken up permanent residence on a well manicured, tree lined idyll piece of property so I stop by to say hello and chat a bit.

I have never driven by the house since I sold it.

Last week, with nudging from my husband, I did the drive by.

Best urging I ever ascribed to.

The house looked essentially the same, yet very different.

The stately front door was a gaudy red.

All the shrubbery that previously embraced the structure were sadly uprooted.

The well manicured hedge between the house and the neighbors was dramatically stripped away voiding the privacy and making the property look like an awkward run on sentence.

Through the large glass windows in the den I caught a glimpse of pedestrian macrame plant holders hanging from the ceiling.

It definitely was not home anymore.

The ghosts had departed and the house was no longer a familiar landing place.

Exorcism completed.

I do not anticipate any more nocturnal freak outs.

Moving out and on armed only with beautiful memories as depicted in the photo of my three most favorite women gathered in the often used dining room, comprised of my other mother, Ethel, Queen E. and the divine Empress and never referred to as grandmother, Syd.