And my last night here in this house. Little whimpers of electricity, midnight-dim-light, Wilson’s snores and something that sounds like wind whipping around the whole house. And I have come so far in the process. I can let go of things now. Houses used to wrap me up in their tendrils and keep me. I can let go of this place. But I am also grateful to this place. This place that held my newborn baby, bathed him, watched him as he learned to sit and crawl and tumble and walk and run and mumble baby chatter. This place that nestled me in the midst of divorce. This place of creation, crafting and conversation. On the back porch – watching storms, making things, feeding Jamie in his high chair, watching bumblebees buzzing in and out of flowers. So much learning. So many words. So many emotions. So much love. A strange little family stuffed into a plain white box. These big windows I’ll miss. The odd glow of the place at night. The pop of the fireplace. And all of the ten thousand kilojoules of joy Jamie has pounded into these floorboards learning how to be alive. So much joy. Such a strange little family in a strange little home. Goodbye little home. Thank you for letting me nest, re-coop, rebirth, sprout wings, discover, escape. A haven. There will always be love here.
OK. Blow me down this winding and willowing road. OK.
Treasure and experience every wretched moment.
Appreciation. That’s the word.
When fire turns ashy red in your ribcage.
I held my little baby’s hand and listened to the crowds scream Bernie’s name. And we were all hope and aglow with that golden fire. That fire that does not destroy but ignites. That love that stretches boundaries and burns us all the same. Life is love and the world keeps changing. Keeps foraging through that elliptical spin we’ve got stretched out before us. Progressing, progressing. Always working towards progressing. All our voices were a fiery prayer for something worth progressing towards.
Folding, packing, emboldening, spacing out, giving away. Filing. Fumbling. The things I’m doing and the actions that make up my days. That crease me and release me through all those tiny moments of progressing that I am. Progressing towards the me that I always am.
And springtime buds, who ever did a thing to deserve such a world?
And now the grass is green.
And now the green comes spinning, boundless and bursting down every eroding slope and up through tiny twists of branches. So bright and fierce, this spring green at first birth. When is a leaf born? How does it feel to unfurl?
And now suddenly I am in that space again. That goodbye space. Uprooted, transforming, changing, closing chapters. Thanking the ground for holding me. Moving to Yardley April 19. What a strange statement. What a strange life.