We’re moving in two days from a house I love and am saying goodbye to.
One thing I’ve loved about living here are the flowers, I enjoy photographing the roses, especially after a dewy night or a rain.
The tiny water droplets on that petal satin is magical.
When I got married, four days after 9/11, I was given two wedding eternity bands by my betrothed.
One was white gold and one set in platinum, but they look the same.
I wore them one on top of my engagement ring, an emerald cut antique diamond with tiny baguettes on the sides, and one on bottom, so stacked on my ring finger with the engagement ring in between.
Some people call that a ring guard, a utilitarian way of explaining why I wanted two wedding bands, not one (more sparkly!).
I’m a simple creature, in the end.
Packing an entire house to move is a huge physical chore and to me, it feels like I’m in a war. I keep thinking things to myself like “This will be over soon,” “This, too, shall pass” and “Be a soldier!”
I don’t mean to say that it’s the same as being in an actual war, it’s more like a war within myself. I’m digging up so many bones of my past lives, deciding what to discard and keep.
What is meaningful and what is trash. But it’s all pieces of our lives, pieces of me.
It’s also heightened by the fact that we lived here during my son’s scoliosis casts and many medical trips and we just went on one again this week, in the middle of packing, it’s all mixed in together in my heart and mind and cellular woman matter.
Each piece I pack or discard reveals a memory, some painful, some beautiful lost times that will never return, some I would rather forget, and it’s all washing over me so fast without time to therapeutically process it, ya know?
New doors and windows will open in our new place and life will blossom again. But part of me thinks it would be easier to DIE than move ever again.
Maybe I’m being dramatic. I’m doing it, I’m juggling it, I’m hanging on with a lot of balls flying in the air.
But lo! A bright spot appeared from the murk, an upside: Two or gosh, three years ago, I hid my own wedding bands somewhere in this house and plum forgot where I put them.
I probably hid them from some worker who was a stranger to me who came in to work on the house on day, I’m not sure, I’m paranoid because we’ve had home invasions on our block.
I wasn’t wearing them at the time due to *cough* weight gain (they didn’t fit) and so I didn’t miss them for a few weeks or months.
Long story short, when I really wanted to find them, it was impossible. In due time, or with haste, I blamed my husband, Nick.
Nick must have hid them for me, I must have asked him to, and now he can’t remember where he put them! Gah.
He must have early onset dementia, obviously, I guess I’ll have to take care of him. *sighs*
No. Both he and I searched many times for the rings, high and low, low and high, to no avail.
I would give up for a while, then try again, turning up nothing but dust bunnies, discarded sex toys and boogers.
In moving, we were donating some old baby and toddler stuff (Not the sex toys, you want them? Kidding.) Continue reading