(This is the second in a series of three moments during
which I realized that leaving here is not completely without poignant
sentiment.)
The second time was Monday, the first day the movers were
here to start the packing and moving process.
I meandered into the living room after it had been packed, and there it
was--my spot. The spot where I sat in
this house seven years ago, when it was still empty, waiting for a snow-blower delivery that
couldn’t be done any other day. It was
cold that day, but I didn’t want to turn on the heat because I was only going
to be there for a short while. I was a
bit early, though, so I wandered through the house, enjoying the space of its
emptiness, planning where furniture would go, admiring the snow-covered scenes
out the windows, and reveling in the fact that this gorgeous, classic house was
now ours. And I did love it then,
despite how I eventually came to feel about it.
(I’d forgotten that.) Eventually,
the time for the delivery came close, and I went down to the living room. From that room you can see both the street
and the driveway. I lit the
gas fireplace for warmth (and for the sheer joy of needing it—we’d just moved
here from California, after all.) I sat
there on the floor, listening to my iPod (This was way, way before my iPhone,
or even my Touch. This was one of the
original ones with the wheel, the one that only played music.) and trying to
read while watching for the delivery truck.
It turned out to be late, so I probably spent close to forty-five
minutes there on that spot, leaning against the wall next to the
fireplace. The snow-blower eventually
arrived (the same one that we sold to our neighbor last week.)
We placed a storage chest in that spot, so I
never really saw it or even thought about it again. Until yesterday, when I remembered that once
upon a time, on a cold, lonely morning, I knew it well.
Remembering it is…bittersweet.
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