(This is the third in a series of three moments during which
I realized that leaving here is not completely without poignant sentiment.)
The third time came Tuesday, as the kitchen was being packed around
me. I was sitting at the kitchen table
while half a dozen or so movers (packers?) were moving all over the house,
packing and organizing and labeling. The
house is no longer ours, for all intents and purposes. I typed this on Tuesday, and it doesn’t
actually change hands until Friday, but the terms and conditions were met long
ago, and with all our belongings slowly disappearing into clouds of paper
and mounds of cardboard, we’re all but gone from here.
We plan to sleep here until they actually load our
belongings on Thursday, and we won’t be moving into the new place until
Friday. As of today, we can no longer
cook here and will be forced to rely on either the microwave or restaurants for our meals until we’re actually unloaded in the new place next Monday. Because of all this, there is
soon to be very little of “us” here.
Once again, there’s that bittersweet feeling.
As I realized this, I decided I needed to make note of these
emotions while I was feeling them. I had
planned to write in my BOS about this move, but it was nowhere near me. Neither was this computer, so I wrote it in
our “Moving Notebook,” an inexpensive spiral notebook in which we made notes
when we were leaving Vancouver. We used
it on the trip from BC to California, and again when on the move from
California to Ontario.
It probably fits better there than anywhere else.
[Update: The movers did not finish on Thursday, as was planned. They need an extra day. But that's alright, because the buyers ran into a glitch with their paperwork, so they won't actually be taking possession until Monday. I write this update in an exhausted condition in a hotel. We still plan to be out tomorrow, move cats to their new home, pick up the boys for a weekend visit in said new home, and collapse in exhaustion.
Wish us luck.]
No comments:
Post a Comment