I was reading a column this morning about a woman who was longing to purchase her childhood home. She’s driven by many times, even gone inside with the consent of the owner, but she still toys with the idea of wanting to have it, wanting it to be hers, feeling a need to hold onto that tangible relic of years gone by.

My parents moved to their one and only home when they married and both my brother and I grew up there. My mother died when we were in our 20’s and our dad when we were in our 30’s. Neither of us lived in that area at the time and neither of us had much hesitation, if any, about selling the house.

I have vivid memories and vivid images of this house. I can recreate just about every corner, every piece of furniture, remembering everything from family events to conversations and where they took place. I remember so many moments, good and bad, that played out within those walls. I can see the exact spot, under the archway between the living room and dining room, that I always chose to throw a full scale, face down on the floor with hands and feet pounding, tantrum. I can see the backyard filled with rosebushes and remember us learning to ride bikes in that wide space in front of the garage.

I also have an equally clear mental video of clearing out the house, of dealing with what felt like a never-ending array of “stuff,” from my father’s tailored suits that went back decades and were neatly hung in every closet in the house to the debris that Norm and I had left in dresser drawers and attic cubbyholes. It was an archaeological dig through our history and one that I know I took on with more desire for expediency than emotion.

Over the course of time, I have driven by that house many times. I’ve told my kids that this was “my house” although I have spent far more of my life out of that setting than in it. And I have to confess that not once did I ever think I would want to live there or own it. Not once did I ever want to ring the doorbell and ask to see inside.

The memories of that house, for me, are not about the physical house. Yes, I can remember the spot in which Dad always sat. Yes, I can remember so many dinners at the kitchen table. Yes, I can see us sitting at the top of the stairs, after having been put to bed for the night, trying to listen to adult conversation and whatever might be on the TV. But the house to me is just the prop, the backdrop, the stage set.

I don’t need or want my parent’s house. It offers no comfort in the face of their absence in my life. When I think about my brother, all the silly sibling moments we shared, the deep ache is for him, wishing his life had not ended so prematurely, so abruptly. The house is, for me, irrelevant.

The memories we have are not about the places, they are about the people and the emotions. Houses are things, just things. My parent’s house is someone else’s right now as it will likely be someone else’s in the future. It is not the place, the physical space that matters. What matters is what we hold onto and how we fill our full hearts.