We hauled ass, past the point of exhaustion and then some. Notepads of lists, shared documents tracking assigned tasks, trip after trip to hardware stores. The always updating shit to do list on a white board. Months of work, often late, to get our house ready to sell. I’m proud of my family; we once again pulled together and we pulled it off. There were tears, snarks, laughs, copious amount of frustration and much more, but the house is listed. Now the wait. I hope we can get enough to cover it all.

“Staging” has been a big frustration, erasing ourselves only to have generic ornamentation adorn our former home. We’re still here, but it’s no longer ours. I sit here and somehow it looks completely different yet exactly the same. I suppose home really is where the heart is, and my heart stays with my people. Also, home is where who you are is, and now that’s all stored away for the time being. I’m nervous to see how much of it makes its way back out again.

I look forward to getting my stereo and music back and spinning the first record. I’m pondering cooking the first meal, long quiet walks with the dog, seeing stars at night, smoking the first joint, getting a hot tub. Having space for family and friends to visit. Not hearing sirens as often. Not feeling that constant anxious pressure of a nervous city grinding against its own bloated inefficiencies and densities. It’s been the joy that kept me going these last couple of “moving months”.

Is it change or is it loss? I’m okay. There’s sentimentality but no feelings of loss here. Loss is just change you didn’t get to choose I guess.

If I know why is it still so hard to let it go?