I sit out front and just enjoy the early evening. On the one block street, two little boys race back and forth on their bicycles, yelling to each other. The sun is out; it’s not too hot, not too cold. Our small yard looks pretty with the heather, rose bushes, red maple tree, and another tree that I don’t know what it is yet. (Never was much on botany and flora stuff). My love is now the proud owner of his first lawnmower.
A few minutes later, the kid parade continues, with two girls a little older than the boys; one on a bicycle, one on a scooter. I’ve seen the one on the bike before during brief times here, she always looks over and smiles and waves. The one on the scooter worries me, she likes to get going on it then crouch, racing down the street. I don’t want her to get hurt.
The traffic is distant and it’s quiet except for the happy music of children. The older people on the street are all inside right now, except for me. I close my eyes and turn my face to the sun and think about anything except all the boxes inside, waiting to be unpacked. The movers left awhile ago and now it’s all on us again.
40 years have come to a close. 40 years in my old home. Three marriages. Everything from joy to PTSD. Wonderful times and horrible times. Sickness and health, and now sickness again. But part of me is still 20 years old and looking to what future’s left. We fall into our new bed, exhausted, but knowing this is only the start of something new and strange and wonderful.
Morning comes. The patio on the west side of the house is perfect for coffee and waking up together. We talk about our new street. How wonderful it is to have no stairs and front steps for me to struggle with. We have nicknamed our street “Diversity Drive”. There are eight houses per side, mostly two-story but a few one-story like ours. We enjoy the quiet-no loud car stereos, no rude noisy neighbors rattling pictures off the walls. A lot of the bad times and memories of the old place seem far away here. It’s all new. I have brought with me only what comforts me, and he who comforts me the most, and left all that bad stuff behind. Now that all the utilities are hooked up, we’ve changed our address, gone through all the legalese, and gotten a little familiar with our neighborhood over this long process, it feels...easier.
It’s the UN around here, ours are the only white faces we’ve seen. We have all colors, languages and accents. It’s beautiful to us both, it reminds MrCI of growing up in SOCAL. And everyone we’ve met has been friendly. I am only sad because the adorable woman next door doesn’ t speak English, and I don’t speak Vietnamese. I don’t know about her husband; he seems sort of retiring or standoffish, I haven’t been around him enough yet to know which.
I knew it would be really hard doing this after all that time. But the thoughts and feelings kept me going, kept me packing, kept me dealing with all the business of transferring and adapting one household to another. My love has zero experience with all that; it’s always been my job. His has always been carrying loads of boxes and fixing things, along with the enormous task of taking care of me. That includes doing all the physical things I can no longer do. But the main thing I had to keep telling myself was, ‘I am NOT going to die in this house’.
There is still so much to do today. But we will do it because together we have proven we can do anything together. And the patio was perfect for the early morning. Our so-sweet next door neighbor grows all kinds of food in her tiny back yard area. We sat at our table and she came through the gate with arms full of okra and three different kinds of squash. We thanked her profusely. I cannot imagine a more perfect housewarming gift. And I never thought to be at peace, this much, ever again.