Homesick

I talk a good talk, I pretend I can take change on the chin, but I’m not coping nearly as well as I’m letting on. My stuff and I have been hanging around together for a LONG time – granted, it’s been a one sided love affair but we are attached nonetheless.  

We packed up my den this week. I had already plundered the bookcases; sorted a mountain of books, weeding out my own collection first so I wouldn’t feel too guilty packing up his. I sent a virtual library to the superfluity and still managed to fill eight large boxes with books I couldn’t part with.  The shelves and my desk have been moved to the playroom in pieces – the floor only recently discovered under the clutter from the attic has been buried again, this time with furniture. 

We dismantled the dining room table yesterday and I felt an unexpected pang in my heart. I watched as the pedestal legs were removed and thought about all the celebrations they had supported; Christmas dinners, birthday parties, gatherings of every sort; and had to turn away. It was like the past had been breached and all the memories made around that table released into the ether, the air in the room caught in my throat.  The move became real.  I’m leaving this house. 

I’m a long way from being ready to move, physically or, as it turns out, emotionally.  But I’m putting my brave face on and taking things one step at a time. I have tremendous support going into this new adventure – lots of people holding my hand and yet….  all the support in the world doesn’t outweigh the reality. I am homesick even as I live in my house.