If all goes according to plan, one month from now we will be spending our second night in our new house. The sound of my husband's voice reading stories to our children will be drifting down a different hall. In the night I'll wake up, and be unsure of where the door frame is, or how to find the bathroom or a glass of water. It will be some time before I can navigate, eyes nearly closed, a space that has become my own.
Tonight I walked the dog in our neighborhood, peering at the houses and their gardens, remembering seeing them for the first time. I remembered that feeling of being untethered, nearly a wisp to be blown away, so lacking connections and so unknown.
As I walked, I passed a neighbor and his dog. He told me about the Indian supper his wife had made that night, with heirloom tomatoes harvested from plants I gave them. Their verge garden overflows with lofty plants, fruit tumbling heavy on the vines, each tomato a warm, weighty, handful of joy. They have gotten out the canning supplies to manage a bumper crop. A crop sprung from seed that I planted and nurtured on my bedroom window in the winter sunlight.
When I planted all that seed, I didn't know who would harvest it. My heart craved generosity, and a community that shared its bounty. Sadly, my own tomato plants have made a lackluster attempt at fruit production, but my kitchen shelf is lined with luscious tomatoes from my neighbors.
It's hard to start again. It's hard to leave a place I've grown to love. I comfort myself with the thought that this next house will be the last house for several years, and likely the only Houston house. "The next move will be back to Australia, and professional movers will do all the packing" I tell myself as I wrap another wine glass in layers of paper and pop it in the box.
In the meantime, a trip to Europe awaits, a great family adventure! And then we'll turn our energies to creating yet another home, and filling it up with the kind of life we want to live.