AnOTHER MOVE

-       after What the Living Do by Marie Howe

For weeks now, I’ve been thinking about all of the to do’s – how to organize the move – the utility calls, cancel this, transfer that, the cashier’s checks to get, the money transfers to make, the emails, the calls to Sophie in Michigan and wondering if she will be ok with this? Is Olivia alright? Was this the wrong house to choose? The questions are endless. Then there are the thoughts about my dad and his decline, my mom’s anxiety and all the sadness surrounding them. I worry and then bring myself back to where I am – I have to focus as there is a lot right in front of me.

So, I keep going and going and doing and doing.

I eat take out and chocolate.

I feel the shoulder and bicep strain getting worse so when I remember, I do arm rolls and stretch in doorways I pass. And I keep going – there’s more to pack, people to call and organizing to do.

The thought drops in – this is a great opportunity to ask for some help. Ugh – this shit again? Yes, I know, but I don’t want to. I do it anyway and I’m proud of myself for a moment, then back to doing….

I guess what I’m trying to say is that I keep thinking about how different my life is than I thought it would be. I never thought I’d move this often. I spent the first 30 years of my life in the same home. Thank god I did because I had very little stability other than that house. I know the cracks in the flagstone walkway, the cycle of the non-fruiting pear tree outside my window, the smell of the cleaning supplies and the sound of the Electrolux vacuum.

My daughters have none of this. Their memories span over many different homes with each of their parents. They have clothes, toiletries and athletic gear scattered among houses, apartments and cars. I know this teaches them resilience, flexibility and the impermanence of life, but I can’t help from thinking that these lessons are not ok for them; that I have fucked them up by the circumstances they are being raised in.

And yet, there’s this – unprompted, they tell me what’s happening in their lives; they call me and ask for my input. They cry, laugh and turn to me when they are scared and share truths that they don’t with anyone else. So now, I’m considering - maybe it is ok; or better than ok. Maybe growing up in the same house and having married parents is over-rated.

 From an Untamed Writing class taught by Dana Childers