Leaving the house we grew up in felt like another death in a way. It was hard to let go. Like each of us, that house had seen a lot of sorrow, but somehow still managed to be a source of great joy and welcoming to all. No one was too eccentric, drunk, or disheveled to be denied a place at the Kissinger dinner table. Our house was the spot all our friends gathered on summer nights and on weekends. We never locked the door. People knew to just come inside and not to bother ringing the door bell.
