Almost nine years ago we sold our house in Florida through an agent. The agent led us to believe that no one was interested in the house, so we sold it at a small loss. Then, at closing, she told me that her office had received more phone calls about our house than any other listing they'd had in a year. In short, since she wasn't going to make much money on our house in any case, she just wanted to close as soon as possible.

We vowed never to use an agent again.

So we put our current house up for sale by owner two weeks before Christmas. Not exactly the best market, I suppose, but we did okay. We agreed to a contract with buyers one week after putting out the sign--and for the amount we wanted to get out of the house, as well.

Given the interest in our house, we probably could have had a nice little auction and gotten more money by leaving the house on the market until the new year. But that sort of thing (which is exceedingly common in the Washington, D.C. area--where we're headed) makes me queasy. Unless you're actually running an auction, I think you ought to take or reject (or negotiate) each offer as it comes. The early bird gets the house. But I suppose that's just old fashioned and anti-capitalistic.

No matter. With one month to go before the move, we've found a place to rent (in Takoma Park, MD), sold our house and gotten well into the packing process. We're ahead of schedule. And still, I can't help feeling a little like Neil Diamond. You know, like in "I Am, I Said:" "L.A.'s fine, but it ain't home/New York's home, but it ain't mine no more." The song (and particularly, the arrangement) is a bit pompous, but I share the sentiment. I'm still in Durham, but it's not mine anymore.

When I walk or drive down streets I've known for more than seven years, there's an uneasiness inside. Is this the last time I'll go down this street? How can I imagine leaving this winter before the dogwoods bloom again? I dunno. I've long thought of these streets and neighborhoods as my own, and for that matter, the people of Durham as my own as well. Durham is the first place I've lived as an adult where I could imagine spending the rest of my life. And, who knows, when Barbara's assignment in Washington is done, we might well move back. Or by then, we might move on to yet another city. There's no way to know.

So as we go around, seeing old friends for what might be the last time, there's a sense of sadness. A loss of the dream that was our future here in Durham.

A lot of people don't understand why we feel this way. Durham is a very flawed city. It is wonderfully diverse (and while some folks don't think that's important, we do), and with that diversity comes activisim and division. The politics of the school board, in particular, border on the bizarre. And yes, there were 40 homicides in Durham County last year (36 in the city proper). Durham is the drug center of central North Carolina, and too often it pays the price.

Durham is also the artistic center of central North Carolina. The vast majority of up-and-coming bands in our are have fled Chapel Hill (to pricey and too precious) for the funkier climes of Durham. And while Hillsborough is home to many of the most famous writers in the area, a good number still prowl the Durham streets as well. Authors rarely pass up the chance to read at the Regulator, where crowds of more than 100 are routine, even for relatively obscure scribes.

We love walking around in a city that is always changing. A storefront near our house has gone from paint store to seafood shop to Hispanic tienda in about five years time. Indeed, the effect of immigration on our neighborhood has been profound and mostly positive. More people with different ideas and cultures and, yes, languages. We live in a colorful part of town, and our lives are better for it.

And yet even as I wave and say hi to old and new friends alike, I feel a pulling back as well. I'm a ghost--visible but not completely real. And in a short time, I'll disappear.

Unlike other places I've lived, however, I will return to Durham. I will see what the new owners of our house do to it. I may be leaving, but I'm not shutting the door. Maybe we'll like living in the D.C. area better. Maybe we won't. Maybe Barbara will decide to return to her old job or find a new one at her newspaper. Maybe she'll want to move on. I moved six or seven times as a child, and I rather liked the itinerant lifestyle. I've lived in Durham longer than I've lived anywhere else in my life, and I've lived in this house more than twice as long as I've lived in any other house. Like it or not, I put down roots. And ripping them out is proving to be disheartening work.

But I'm making sure to wrap those roots properly, just in case they need to be replanted. After all, you never know what will happen.

Jon Worley isn't the most sentimental guy around, but he does get a bit misty when talking about Durham.