Not blogging too much these days, because I just don’t seem to have the time or motivation. Or that intense need to dispatch missives into the Cosmos as a way of reassuring myself that I am still a human having a life. There seems to be little doubt of that lately.
I don’t think moving trucks get much bigger than the one now parked in front of my house (well, mine until June 8, 2015.) The upstairs is emptied, the basement is emptied, and the first floor is emptying. Except for the bags and baskets of stuff the Olivia-child left for me to sort through within the next week. Last minute scramble to make an inventory of what she does or does not want.
Five dudes of assorted sizes (mostly large) carting things from house to van. It is, fortunately, a lovely enough day that parking myself on a bench on the front porch is as good a vista as any. I would rock, but the green rockers (currently heavily dusted in a lighter green shade of pollen) are destined for the moving truck. My upper respiratory system has also been dusted in pollen, and a Sudafed helped with that.
How do people feel about these things?...Leaving a house where so much happened; so much nurturing of small-to-fledgling humans, and an older one heading into the peaceful place of life’s closing chapters? I hammered more than a few nails into the floorboards, and cemented bathroom tiles a’plenty. Wrote 4 books, composed a few songs, and inexpertly played a few more.
In my hard-earned way of compartmentalizing, I've put wistfulness in my pocket, where I will occasionally discover it, like a wad of soft fuzzy lint, and roll it around between my fingers. I will miss it here. But not regretfully.
