It is moving day. Today two guys with a truck and an enormous roll of bubble wrap will swath and label and usher our belongings into the netherworld of international shipping. The art, the dishes, the toys and books and blankets that have defined our habitat for the last 2.5 years are going away. And then we are going away. A few months from now we will reconstruct a space to call home, but for now I am filled with the unease of the undoing.
We’re erasing the tiny world we’ve made and inhabited for the past 2.5 years and preparing, as if we could truly prepare for such a thing, to go out into the blankness.
For the next hour or so, my baby will still be sleeping in our bed, the first bed she’s ever slept in, in the first home she’s ever known. This is where we first became parents. Where we’ve made and consumed thousands of meals. Where we’ve made and told our first stories. Where we’ve watched three generations of ducks hatch and grow and migrate and return each spring to the drainage ditch pond that skirts our neighbourhood.
Last night we walked down to the pond for what might be our last visit to the ducks, and they were there to peep and murmur at us, mostly fledged, full of the exuberance and curiosity and awkward colouring of adolescence. I’ve learned a lot about mothering from watching those ducks. Next spring some of them will be back again. And we won’t.