Moving on

My computer is still in a box somewhere in the mess of moving rubble that currently is our new family room. Probably, my computer will stay in that box - and probably it will be sold in a pending yard sale. 


Bill's computer is nicer. It's the exact same kind as mine, and he bought his two days after I bought mine from the same store from the same guy. But his has way more gadgets and memory and COOLness. Such is the way with computers. This years computer is next year's fossil.


Anyway, Bill's computer is nicer and I am planning on inheriting it (and re-possessing my Wacom) when we sell the house and he gets himself a nice Mac (and a new Wacom). 


Because serious business graphic designers have to have a Mac.


And a new Wacom (because mine is not only old, it's slightly glitchy).


But THIS - the computer in a box thing - is why I haven't posted in a week. Because good glory, I have had THINGS TO SAY!


Of course, now I can't remember what they are.


We are officially moved. Our very first home sits abandoned, empty, clean. Ready for someone new to fill it with furniture, voices and personality. Do you want a new home? With freshly painted walls (thanks, Kristie!) and a ridiculously clean oven (thanks Christine!)?


Oh, and windows spotless inside and out. Our friend Devin risked his life washing those windows (he's a retired window-washing professional. Now he's a graphic designer. Hes also married to oven-cleaning Christine. They are a power couple, I tell you what). He stayed after everyone else had gone to scrub those panes to perfection. I heard him calling from where I was vacuuming in the master bedroom. I found him standing outside the window on the precarious, short, and slanted ledge outside what was Wyatt's window. 


"I need you to close this window" he said, "and open it again when I'm done washing it so I can get back in."


I thought of his beautiful wife and three darling children and how he had recently recovered from a broken appendage, and nearly demanded that he abandon his post, let the dirty windows lie, and march down to the kitchen for a cold beverage and then on home to his family.


But...Devin was a professional. I mean, he knew windows. He never touched windex. He had one of those squeegies and one of those extendy-arm thingies. Windows were a matter of pride for him. 


And when he's standing on a ledge is no time to tell a man what to do. 


And, well, my windows WERE looking beautiful. More beautiful than they ever had, I admit to my shame.


And so he waxed on and waxed off, and talked Graphic Design with my Bill the way some men talk about football. 


I'll leave it to you to decide which *I* think is sexier.


After all was scrubbed and polished, we turned out the lights, locked the doors, and walked away from the life we'd known for the past few years.


I cried like rain. Drenching - but cleansing.


We drove in our car toward our new home for the next two years, and I couldn't help but notice that - with all the chaos of moving and prepping a house for moving and all the coordinating and hard labor and cardboard box papercuts - the only really essential things to me were with me right now enclosed within the small space of our car. 


We put the kids to bed in their new shared room, and Bill and I lie on our bed talking.


We made lists of the things we would miss - and I cried again.
And then, when I had had enough mourning, we made a list of the things we would NOT miss, until we were rolling with laughter.


This move was, after all, about moving on.