the things we leave behind

As our cabinets grow barer, my heart is also packing its boxes. Today we went to our neighbor's daughter's birthday party. From their back screened porch (so very lovely--they have painted the wooden floors crimson) you look down into our own backyard. So strange to see your own home through the eyes of your neighbors. It all looks so orderly and pastoral over here. My husband's wonderful white chapel of a shed, the shinto arbor smothered in lady banksia, the radio flyer tricyle perched between two whiskey barrels planted with snapdragons and lantana. And for the first time I started to really hurt over leaving this place, over pulling away from its sweet old dignity. This place is a mirror of decisions we made before our lives changed so deeply and miraculously, before . . . before we were who we now are. Our lives were so profoundly different then.

And tonite I sat on our back deck, the wind blowing so moody over us, with my baby girl sleeping over my shoulder, and watched the bare trees tangle with one another. The trees here are magical, tall and mysterious and full of life, towering over the bustle of this city. I will miss them.

I have loved (thus far) the process of packing. Handling all these pretty things. Delicate teacups and bags given to my by friends and shoes covered with the grime of our wedding night. It is not such a bad thing to take the time to touch all of these objects--little fossils of myself.