A Letter To Dairy Farm Estate

Dear Dairy Farm Estate,

I wonder what you must’ve thought of me as I arrived, straight from the hospital, that evening in 2006. Back then, I thought you were just a group of buildings, a cold condominium. I didn’t know you would become my best friend, my teacher, and then a memory. You know, you’ve held every birthday party I’ve ever had. Talk about consistency. From fart contests to dollhouse making, you saw it all. You gave us a place to be children, even through crumbs and chaos. 

When I was six, I had a Monster High-themed birthday party. My friends and I ran around with our dolls, using your roots as beds and your sidewalks as runways. I learned to ride a bike on that same sidewalk, that same year. I fell more times than I could count, your pavement leaving marks on my skin, but your air filled my lungs and gave me the strength to try again. You were my first teacher, letting me learn without expectation.

When I was seven, I had a vet-themed birthday party. My mom bought little stuffed animals for all the kids, and we used tape to make casts for them. Your function room was covered in every colour of tape possible, mostly pink if I remember correctly. That was the same year I decided I was gonna climb your tree. You know the tree; the big one, right near my house. I spent a year trying to climb it, only progressing one inch every day. But one day, I finally did it. I pulled myself up and sat there on a strong branch, soaking in the silence. Were you proud of me then? The orangey tang of the wind up in that tree told me you were. You helped me discover my own self-sufficiency that year.

When I was eleven, I had a corgi-themed birthday party. I don’t know how you did it, but somehow the one guy in the condo with a corgi happened to walk by as my party was happening. We spent forever petting that dog; Brownie was his name. My best friend moved out that same year, and that birthday party was the first time I got to be with her since she left. I receded into myself when she left, into the screens and silence of my bedroom. But you waited, a gentle presence right outside my window. I could sense you there in the peaceful birdsong that woke up on the weekends. Thank you for being patient with me; it gave me more comfort than you know.

When I was sixteen, I had a pool party. My mom had stopped planning my parties for me, and studying had made me too busy to take the time to buy thematic decor. But you made sure it didn’t rain that day, and I appreciate it. I had my first kiss a couple of months later. I wonder what you thought as you watched me, sixteen and so sure of myself, slipping out of the house at 2 am, slinking over to his home. No matter what mistakes I made, your stairwells and sidewalks were there to hold my steps. You let me grow without shame.

I had a pool party at seventeen, too. It was just easier. You let it drizzle that year, I guess you just knew I wanted to do karaoke at home instead of swimming. You always just knew what I needed. Even in my hard moments that year- bawling in the playground, unsure of myself-you, you were there. Your breeze lightened the weight off my shoulders and wrapped a warm presence around my quivering body. You didn’t ask anything of me. But you were there, like you always are. Thank you for your consistency in my life; it helped me find my way back to myself.

And now, I am leaving you.

So I wonder what you must think of me now, having seen every version of me. From a newborn wrapped up in blankets to versions I’m proud of and versions I’ve outgrown. You allowed all of them to matter and all of them to grow. As I leave, it scares me what life will be like without your constant security, freedom, and quiet love. But nevertheless, farewell, Dairy Farm.

Thank you for accepting all of me, always.

I promise to visit.

Love,

Emma

P.S. Will you miss me too?