On Moving
A major day of moving yesterday: three filled-to-the-brim carloads of boxes and bins and carefully wrapped kitchenware. I met Laura to exchange Rowan at the ice cream and waffle place, where we both dozily recounted our days. I told her I feel like I won’t know what to do with myself when all of this momentum ceases, but I realized swiftly that the momentum will never cease. We will move and settle and have a wedding and so on and so forth. There is always work to be done.
Rowan and I arrived at our new house to find Ian meeting with the electricians, the painter’s drop-cloths covering every inch of the floors. Ian was red from biking in the cold spring air. We plugged in some Christmas lights in Rowan’s soon-to-be room. We set up a bookshelf.
When we got home, Ian looked around at the starkly empty rooms. “It’s a ghost town up here,” he said. Rowan had some trouble sleeping. Woke up weeping, maybe upset that his room looked so unfamiliar.
Transitions are hard. The shuttling around of beds and photo albums and records and jackets mimics an emotional move: the process of becoming settled, becoming a family of our own making in our space. It is not entirely without complications or sad memories, but there is a profound and quiet sweetness to being in those rooms with our shared objects and our separate ghosts and knowing that this is our home.
Falling asleep for one of the last nights in this present space, we heard a gunshot. Then several more. We sat up, alarmed, and after listening for a few moments decided to call the police. It was frightening, but nothing seemed clearer: it is time to go. More boxes today, and furniture next.
Rachel
