When I think the packing is almost done, I open a closet and find more stuff. Back in May, when we listed the house and I had to take down personal photos, I thought of how happy I'd be to open the boxes and find my treasures. I pretended I was putting away gifts to my future self. Boxing up books, I started with the ones in the bedroom - all my Laker stuff, religious books, astrology, animals. Then I moved into my office and the living room. Each box was snug with my favorite authors. If a small space remained, I tucked in a knick-knack and didn't mention it on the box.
Now, after months of packing, my hands ache. I'm sick of tape that gets tangled on the roll. Odd-shaped items that defy categorization. I slip through the narrow passageways that are my home now that I boxed #186 today. I've put post-it stars on most of the furniture. Most of the walls are bare. My clothes are packed away in boxes and yet. . . and yet, there's still MORE to do.
Will we really be out of here in 6 days? I can't believe all this stuff will fit into a U-Haul.
But more than the concern about inanimate objects is my worry over the dog and two cats. How will we manage a three day drive to Texas?
Thank Goodness it's Friday and I have the Wall Street Journal crossword to occupy me for an hour before I sleep. IF I sleep. Or will I sleep a few hours and then lie awake, savoring the mountain breeze coming in the window, the crickets like a thin lace over the utter stillness of our private mountain. Will I be awake for the coyotes pre-dawn yelps? Will there be coyotes in Texas? What will my life be like?
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