We are Waiting. Waiting for it to be time to move. In the meantime we are packing boxes and saying goodbyes, but in truth we are caught in The Space Between. There are no contemplative cups of coffee, no relaxing at the end of the day, no long walks secure in the knowledge that all is right in the world. We–specifically I–may not appear active, but neither are we at rest. We are wound tight.
Low House is sold. We have passed the home inspection and the radon inspection and the termite inspection, agreed upon repairs and reparations, left keys with the realtor and power of attorney with our lawyer. The moving truck is scheduled. This house–where I have lived longer than I have lived anywhere since I was in junior high school–is no longer ours. It just has our stuff in it. Our overwhelming mountains of stuff; where does it come from? How much can we get rid of? How can we get rid of it?
And then there is the house Out There. Sparks had been eyeing it online for nearly a year. We spent fifteen minutes there. Our realtor was wishy-washy about it; it was a short sale and the floor plan, he said, was “weird”. But we went to look. The floor plan is actually awesome. It actually has a ton of things I never thought I would have, in a house. It has a huge workshop for Sparks. It has a play structure for Mimi. It has three and a half acres of waving grasses and space, with wild turkeys gobbling in the distance. In those fifteen minutes I folded my arms against the drizzle and said “I like it here.”
So we bought it. Without looking at the crawlspace or attic. Without tasting the water. Without flushing the toilets or driving by at different times of day to see what the traffic is like. It was a leap of faith. Just like everything else in life.
Less than two weeks until all our stuff is put on a truck and taken somewhere out of our control. We will be Out There for my birthday.