There are few “universals” in life. I’ve been able to narrow the list down to three givens: birth, death, and change. These become our stories, our narratives, and our personal history. I want to share about a “near universal,” but one (sadly) that is not guaranteed to and for all — having a “home” — a place and space to enter and re-enter on a regular basis. We are not all blessed to have a safe haven that we can call home. It is because I have had and held a secure home for so long that I am feeling a deep and existential need to write about it.

In just a couple of days, I will be losing my childhood home after having had it as a base for the past 62 years. Following the death of both of my parents over the past year and a half, my two younger brothers and I have recently been excavating and dismantling our family home: a three-bedroom apartment in the Chelsea neighborhood on Manhattan’s lower west side in New York City.

As a limited equity coop, it must be returned to the inventory now that my dad has died and we can no longer claim it as our own for our generation. Later this week, we will descend on this home of nearly seven decades one last and final time to finish our clean-up and clear-out. All remaining furniture will be moved elsewhere. Until this point, we’ve had three once-a-month weekends as a brotherly trio to dig in and find our way through this process. With all artifacts now distributed, and everything off the walls, out of the closets, drawers, and cabinets, it no longer resembles anything like the home that we lived in from 1961 onward, when “The Coop” was first opened to the public.

While I cannot specifically imagine that very final time of saying goodbye and walking out, I have thought about it many times, knowing of this inevitability. I’ve had both solitary and interactive discussions about what the apartment has meant to me, having lived there since age four and done all of my public schooling there until age 18 — along with the many hundreds of weekend and week-long visits we’ve shared.

This dwelling carries so many vital memories. Home to me is a place where one creates their unique personal history and legacy, and shares it with the intimates with whom one resides. This home is imbued with all that life holds: rituals, rites of passage, thousands of meals in all configurations, movies and TV shows from The Smothers Brothers till taking in the day’s news with my dad just four months ago. Home was about being read to and reading to others, having nightmares, being sick and tended to, sharing our stories around a tiny dinner table, and studying for tests from elementary through high school. As a relatively functional family (my parents held their good marriage together for 70-plus years), we had long and passionate discussions about local, national, and international politics, world change, the environment, human and civil rights, music, hopes for the future, and the challenges of growing up white, Jewish, educated, and progressive in New York City.

My brothers and I continued to return to our home apartment year after year for all manner of events, always sharing a depth of connection to people and place. It was safe, it was steady and consistent, and there was a “knowing” that being there was a balm for our souls and bodies.

Above all, this home presented and offered stability, the knowing that we cherished this place in a world that is rampant with too much change to make sense of at times. This made our frequent homecomings opportunities for sharing, growth, deepening relationships, emotional challenges, and hope for the future. I came to know how fortunate my family was to have had such a warm, comfortable, and safe place to live out our lives. It is where my parents wanted to be, and where they came to die. So much of what we each became began there. And in a simple matter of just a few days, I will depart from there for the very last time. It is all very humbling.

Each life has many little deaths, all leading of course to the final one, our big death. Losses of jobs, relationships, coveted artifacts, even our health have all been part of our living home. Now, only days and from nearly 200 miles away, I am left to sort through the iconic and daily memories and experiences of having lived much of my life there. This is a letting go that I cannot bear, but must.

Home has been a silent partner, a present accomplice, to all that I have become. Knowing that this next little death of closing this home is imminent, I recognize that I cannot take the life I led there for granted. There is a deep sadness — a hole in my soul — when I think about my final departure later this week. At the same time, there is tremendous joy knowing that this home provided a safe space to learn and practice my values, convictions, skills, hobbies, and education. I will miss this home more than words can say.

Daniel Cantor Yalowitz is a new columnist whose writings appear every other week in the Recorder. A developmental and intercultural psychologist, he has facilitated change in many organizations and communities around the world. He is former chairman of the Greenfield Human Rights Commission and committed to building and aligning communities with respect and integrity. His two most recent books are “Journeying with Your Archetypes” and “Reflections on the Nature of Friendship.” Reach out to him at danielcyalowitz@gmail.com.

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