There are three bags of Ruffles sitting on the kitchen counter, horrid, godawful junk food normally strengstens verboten in our house. I’m sitting on the floor, feeling like I’m lost in a Manhattan of towering boxes with only occasional spatterings of useable items. How did we get here? This is not my beautiful house!
For most of the day, as for most of the pre-move time, I’ve been running on autopilot. My guess is it’s the best and perhaps only way to keep the blues at bay and not have to submit to the terrible feeling of loss. It’ll come soon enough (actually, its little head has peeped up once already, and I’m not looking forward to the return of the bigger brother). Time has passed in an odd mix of syrupy slowness and speedy jumps. And here we are.
Today, our stuff was packed -well, most of it. It’s little consolation that we’re being moved by a crew from Hesse, my homestate (where we all sit in one boat, just like down here, haha). Tomorrow night, we’ll begin the final countdown of living in a virtually empty house. At that point, there’ll be no denying it, this move IS really happening. Hell and high water have not managed to prevent it.
I’ve lost count how many times I’ve moved in my life, but being old and cantankerous, I can say with surety that nearly every time was one too many. As a young’un I used to believe that I could easily fit in anywhere. Hey, I was young and flexible, and home being where the heart is, the world was my oyster. What I didn’t realise was that in all those years, if you fail to put down roots anyplace, your ability to do so comfortably will dwindle and diminish. Nowadays, I feel like I don’t belong anywhere. And that’s neither easy to bear nor fun to consider.
Yet, I have noone to blame but myself. At every junction, there was a decision made by me, and the consequences are mine to live with. I know things will work out in the end. They have the irritating habit of always doing that, whether I agree or not. It’s just going to be damned hard to get there.