In moving, there comes a strange moment when you can’t remember which house you’re in, what you would see if you looked out the window, and where you would be if you stepped outside. . .
And then you realize you’re not actually in Gervais, you’re in Newberg, and you still have half a day of packing staring you in the face. But you smile anyway and reach for another fistful of Lucky Charms and another wrinkled sheet of wrapping paper, and you pull yet another mug from the cupboard and put it in yet another box and are so grateful that you have a husband and that he has brothers and that they are the ones who will carry all these heavy boxes out of your pretty little house for the last time.
I like moving. ...continue reading