The reality of this move is starting to close in on us all. The day after tomorrow is when it happens. Memories have begun to seep through the walls here, and like the giggling ghosts of children I catch them out of the corner of my eye. All the boxes and things out of place somewhat obscure the familiarity of this house, yet I can still trace the lines of ceiling and walls I know so well.

I remember Sally the turtle.
I remember the little girl's eyes when Sally had to go.
Below my knees two little boys wrestle through the hallway.
I remember the Great Big Tornado Scary Night. Holding hands and morning walks.
The Shadow's love of old men and hamburgers.

I remember Mark and the late night fist fight over the doctrine of non-resistance. Brief tramploline days. I remember tears and shouting and laughter that rocked the walls. A shaved collie in shame. The long stare after Eilene went home.
Cold afternoons with the Jelly Bean and strings of Christmas lights.
The Homecoming Queen's flowers hanging on the wall.

Like a long sigh, they keep coming to me.
But a house is just a house. The memories are of the ones who lived together and made this home. We'll move on to something new and paint the walls with new memories. Yet that knowledge still doesn't seem to stem the surge of this bittersweet mood I'm in today.

Maybe I'm just nervous about starting therapy for my shoulder today. I'll report on that when it's over.