I just sent the truck off with all the boxes and big items for the trek to our small two bedroom San Francisco apartment.

It must be a relief to finally sit down with a bottle of water after an hour and a half of heavy lifting, following me around between bedrooms, attic, and garage as I collect bits of my life tucked here and there, mercilessly cleaved and made to fit into square boxes, our family culture parsed into modest categories like “books” and “kitchen”.

Can I leave behind any of the paintings waiting so patiently for a year and a half in the dark, hiding their faces against each other’s backs? There isn’t much space.

I feel a little loose, to see everything so disjointed. Adrenaline and the schedule of small children hold me together. I keep waiting for the friendly word or quiet moment that will send me apart.

I leave another house where a baby was born. I leave my Mother’s house one last time.

It’s a weekend of goodbyes.

And I will mourn and I will celebrate. And I will speak a bit of blasphemy-

-blessed are the packaged, for they will be opened.

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