We’re moving again, out of this tiny cottage, to a another, bigger house.
Less of a cottage. More storage space. Closer to town, on the main street, in fact. Quiet now, but come Summer and the town will buzz will people, traffic on foot, bikes and by car rolling by my house.
I’m perfectly OK with that. I like to sit back and watch the passing parade.
The new house is on a big block of land, with a flame tree at the back, just perfect for a treehouse.
I’ll have to start my veggie garden over, plant my flowers again.
And there are less kangaroos there, just a 75 second drive from here.
But I am looking forward to it.
Starting again, again.
This little house has served us so well. It’s kept us warm through this horrible winter. It’s gardens have taught me to grow.
It is a very peaceful place.
But there are so many tears here.. so much sadness. The back veranda feels lonely, haunted by the ghost of my husband I wished existed. The cupboards feel cluttered with memories shoved in a nd packed quickly, and unpacking them again feels as if it will bring some release, the way packing them up the first time bought none, only more tension and pain, the surreality of goodbyes kicking in.
I came here so broken.
I have a little while left before I leave.
I won’t be whole.
But my pieces are closer together than they were.