I am filling cardboard boxes. I am shaping them, reinforcing the corners with tape, and filling them -- with books, with linens, with fragile treasures wrapped in plastic bubbles.
Meanwhile, I am slowly emptying a bigger box: the home that we have lived in for the past seven years.
Seven.
I remember, shortly after we moved in, pulling into the driveway one late afternoon and seeing my seven-year-old daughter playing in her bedroom window, in the big house, on the big land, under the big sky...
It hurts to think of leaving.
I don't know where we're going yet. I mean, geographically, roughly, yes, I do know. Specifically, I do not.
I don't even know how to end this post.
To be continued, I suppose...
Meanwhile, I am slowly emptying a bigger box: the home that we have lived in for the past seven years.
Seven.
I remember, shortly after we moved in, pulling into the driveway one late afternoon and seeing my seven-year-old daughter playing in her bedroom window, in the big house, on the big land, under the big sky...
It hurts to think of leaving.
I don't know where we're going yet. I mean, geographically, roughly, yes, I do know. Specifically, I do not.
I don't even know how to end this post.
To be continued, I suppose...