One quiet corner

Everywhere I turn, a box. A human. A pile of belongings belonging either to us or to a visitor. The urge to put things away balances with the urge to give up and hope things will simply put themselves away.

Over the last four days, our house has shrunk. Boxes are collecting in the corners like spider webs, climbing the walls; filled and taped and labeled, they hold our stuff tight, promising to fit neatly in organized rows when it’s their turn to be loaded into the moving truck.

At the same time, Kerrie’s family is staying with us, in town to celebrate the life of the family patriarch, our house serving as a base for her parents and sister during the difficult grieving time.

Despite the extra people and the extra stuff – and especially the extra mess – there are corners of the house that seem empty. Our computer desk and our bookshelves have been wiped clean, ridded of all non-essentials, serving as the base model of a perfect office. It’s in this area I sit. Just to get away for a second.

Before I go back to packing. Navigating a house we’ve suddenly outgrown, looking forward to a move but dreading the act, knowing that despite our love for our new home, and despite the bonds we hold with our family, this house that we’ve outgrown will always be our first.

Though it hardly measures up, the last few days have put things into perspective. If I we can let go of the ones we love the most, we can surely move on from this home.