So here I am in the wee hours of the morning, sitting on the floor, in front of a computer monitor that is also on the floor, in a house I no longer own but have arranged to keep possession of until Sunday.
The professional moving truck loaders The Alpha had over here yesterday afternoon worked some serious Truck Tetris (one of the many times The Alpha and I talked during loading, he called simply to say, "This truck is a friggin' TARDIS!") to get the vast majority of our earthly belongings co-located in the 26-foot cargo area of a Guess-Who-Hauls-It truck. I'm certain it wouldn't have all fit in there without the professionals doing the loading. Thank goodness we hired them, even if we're driving it ourselves.
I flew down this evening... er, yesterday evening. It's strange to be able to so plainly see that this house we've lived in for a decade isn't our home any longer. I found this statement over at Inner Dorothy. She was making an analogy to the church, but talking about her real childhood home in doing so:
"I had zero trouble walking away from that house. Because everything about it that mattered was etched permanently on my heart. It did not exist within those walls. It was time for someone else to create their own memories there. I was taking mine with me."
Sunday -- that is, technically, tomorrow -- I hope to be able to say and feel the same thing.
(And maybe it helps just a little that the same day I bought the new house, I also ordered the same tile we installed last year in the one we have now sold. Yes, aesthetics do matter.)
* * *
I'm a list-maker. I make one every morning when I begin my workday, or sometimes even start a new one at the end of the previous day. If I need to clear my head, I write a list of what's in there and have the satisfaction of being able to transfer the anxiety surrounding those items to the paper (or phone screen) upon which they're written.
But I want to get a jump on today's list, and it's just not possible. It's 3:30 in the morning. The places I need to go aren't open. It's nowhere close to time for the appointments I've made. The noise I might need to make to get other things done isn't acceptable when my husband is sleeping in the next room.
In 48 hours, I expect to have my family of four (four feet and eight paws) reunited in its own living space, and all four of us fast asleep. At least, I hope that's how it goes. I expected to be fast asleep right now, yet here I am.
It's been three months, this juggling phase of life. I'm ready to begin the new chapter in earnest. As much as I hate leaving where we are, I'm eager to get rooted somewhere again. Now that we know exactly where that somewhere is, and we have the keys to it, and are already receiving mail there, I'm hoping the roots we're returning to there will grow deep and healthy.
And that there will always be a nice big, sturdy branch, with roots to match, hanging over a good-sized portion of Texas.