I was hoping to write something emotional this past week about the duplex, and the memories it held and the place it will hold in our hearts, or to write something thoughtful about the process of moving, about the dust and the nostalgia and the misery and what a constant process moving is in one’s 20’s. I might write those things soon, or one of them, or both together. I might write about the dirt and leaves all over the floor, and about the fondness with which our brains can make us look back at some times which were not fond in their present tenses, and about how the neighbors got Fargo an exact replica of her favorite toy—an orange ball the neighbors’ dog always graciously shared—and it made my wife cry a little bit when we opened it and I would have cried too had I had the hydration for such a thing, and Fargo played with it all morning because she loves the thing, it’s all a pup could ever want.
One of the basic things about moving, though, is that it’s exhausting, and while we’ve got everything in the new place now that’s coming, and everything left in the old place that’s staying, and everything over in the storage unit that’s being stored, there’s so much settling in still to be done—unpacking and washing and organizing and hanging and figuring out where the damn router is and when it’s coming, because it was supposed to come today and it hasn’t, and…—that those writings aren’t happening today. Today, we’re getting through. But we’ll miss the duplex. More than we would, were our brains not full of sepia and softened edges.
