A little over a week ago, I learned we will move to Spain.
Spain. A sun-kissed land of sangria and siesta, so different from the Chesapeake farmland I’ve called home for almost a decade.
My husband and I dreamed of travel from our first moments together. We spoke of airports and passports, of antiquity and wonder.
But we were young. And poor.
And then, briefly, we were less poor.
And then, we were the parents of newborns.
And then, my husband’s mother became very sick.
And then, we scattered her ashes in the Wisconsin Northwoods.
And then….one day, peeking through our heavy, liquid grief, we held hands, and decided that life was too short to not seek adventure.
Since my husband works for the federal government, we applied–in Italy, Germany, and even for a long-shot job in Andalusia.
Last Monday, the phone rang, and my husband said, “If we want, we can live in Spain. For three years.”
In that moment, I thought of my eighty year-old self. I pictured her smile, as she remembered the laughter of her sons, splashing in the surf. Would she feel the warmth of the Spanish sun, and recall those rounded, Romantic vowels?
I owed it to that dear old woman, to gather as many memories for her as possible.
To live a life that’s terrifying and extraordinary.
Soon my family and I will have some Spaining to do.