Boxes.

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...