I'm not the most sentimental person, but I grew up in this house and now, as we start to pack it up, it appears to be tugging on something inside me.

Houses are strange and impressive. As architects we overthink it—or maybe trivialize it. We design clean, perfect boxes with white walls and sharp corners, wifi locks and double pane windows, this is modern safety and comfort. But everyday people move into blank boxes, with drafty windows, and squeaky doors. We fill them with every kind of complicated memory and messy emotion imaginable; the longer we stay and the tighter the quarters the more those intangible feelings saturate the house, and the more the house gives back true safety and comfort.

I don't know what it will be like in six months. That seems to be my mom's timeline for moving and I imagine we'll be down most weekends until then, moving furniture and sorting papers. But as we pack up the final boxes and drive off for the final time, I do wonder what happens to everything else. Does the next family inherit a solid dose of comfort, does it somehow tag along with us, or does it just float away like dust dancing towards someone else's scratchy nose?

We had left a small family gathering not unlike dozens of others we’ve had in the past. Aunts and uncles, cousins, and siblings from far away all gathered together around the same table where I used to eat every summer meal. As a child, the shade of two ash trees draped across the porch but today there's just a couple of bamboo curtains and the cadence of familiar stories to temper the afternoon sun.

My Dad loved these kinds of gatherings: friends and family, elbow to elbow, eating, drinking, talking and laughing, flittering between languages like my toddler between laps. And this weekend we had all come together to celebrate him. My Dad died a week ago, and with his portrait perched overhead, we all laughed, cried, ate and drank his memory.

In the months before his death, he shared two hopes with me that I will hold on to forever. Both came long before he was actually sick, but were stark in light of the way he would often joke about death.

First, he wanted to make sure that our families stayed close. My dad’s family is from Europe and we live in the States. I have a brother and a sister in Belgium and, as a child, I spent some longer periods of time with my Aunt and Uncle and cousins in Spain. There’s a special fondness there that despite the time and distance is strong. But as everyone has gotten older, it's naturally become harder to make the trip. The physical distance between our families is great and now, in his absence, it feels even greater.

The second was about my daughter. I don't recall the actual words he used, but it saddened him, as it saddens me, to think that he might not be around as she grew up. I grew up without really knowing my Mom's parents, and as is always the case, it only occurs to me now, as a parent, how painful that must have been for her.

The group today was the last gathering before we all headed back to our corners of the globe. We had a wonderful time together. But no matter how long or sweet the visit the end is always sad, and as we said our goodbyes the tears in my Uncle's eyes betrayed the finality of the occasion. My wife assures me that I’m being irrational, we will see each other again, we must see each other again. But the sad truth of irrationality is that no amount of explanation can convince you of the opposite.

As we drove back I couldn’t help but think of Tim Urban’s essay The Tail End and wonder if we were crossing off the last spot on our family's chart. I'd be lying if I said the thought and blurry eyes didn't make driving back in the setting sun more difficult, but sitting here now, I realize that my wife was right. It's only over if we let it be over. And for a man who never gave up, and a granddaughter he wanted to know, we won't let it be over.