Waiting

Tourism passports. Not good enough.

Well. Here we are.

Waiting.

First we waited for orders. Now we’re waiting for federal passports.

Waiting.

We put our house on the market, which means I scold the children for leaving crumbs or Legos or fingerprints. Our home, no longer ours, now a fantasy for strangers. Whitewashed. Photoshopped. Creepy in its perfection.

In Starbucks, an woman from my youngest’s preschool said, ‘Aren’t you supposed to be gone already?”

Bring it up with the universe, lady.

We’re having goodbye parties. Five lunches or dinners this week with friends. My heart is so full of love for my family of choice.

But I fear, I will say  my goodbyes, steel my heart, as one must do to survive change, and then I’ll see them, again. And again.

They’ll say, “Aren’t you supposed to be gone already?”

Yesterday, in a former life, my youngest would have started preschool. A wonderful place, full of glue and smiles, where I watched my oldest sprout. For the first time in four years, I didn’t pull into that parking lot.

And I don’t know where my youngest will go to school. If he will.

I wait for my other life to start.

“Do you know where you’re going to live? Do you know how you’ll drive? Will you work over there?”

I don’t know. We’ll see. Just have to wait.

People say, “You seem to be taking this all in stride.”

I say, “I just pretend I’m in AA. One day at a time.”

And I do. I pray. I try not to worry, because of that quote about worry being praying for what you don’t want.

But the body knows. The body always reveals what the heart muffles, through aches or sleepless nights. My body speaks to me through a golf-ball sized knot on my neck. I feel it every time I turn right.

I’m getting a massage for it on Friday, and I wish I could tell her to massage time for me too. Stretch the moments when I’m sharing glasses of wine by the Bay with my friends. Make them last. But all the other stuff? Just make it go away.

Set me straight. Prepare me for my journey.

 

 

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