I have thoughts on moving. thoughts that start small, like running my fingers along the banister, and dreaming of a home without stairs, then they run into bigger thoughts, like a yard with a big tree, with a fence and a place where my dog can linger in the sun all day.
I have thoughts on moving, on picking up and going. On leaving this house behind, not unlike a snail finding a new shell or a bird leaving its nest. Because we want more space and because we’re ready to leave.
But the more I prep our nest to leave, the more I find my feet getting stuck, in the memories and sounds, and stories that the walls hold tight with their framed recollections and chipped corners.
But we convinced ourselves that now is the time, before our children get too big, and our roots grow too deep, that we should leave, and head out in search of more, and a place to run, and for our roots to dive deep into rich soil.
So a realtor hammered a sign into our front lawn, and we took a swig of fear, and drank it in. Because now we sell our house.
We are stepping off into something that is uncomfortable. And there are so many unknowns and so much anxiety but some how I know
that we’ll be just fine.