Three weeks to go until we fly to Spain, one-way this time. We play the waiting game. We pack boxes and bags with precious and useful things, wondering how the pictures and photos will look when hung upon new walls. The cat and dog know that something has changed in their home. They inspect the luggage and boxes suspiciously, like customs officers. Winter is here in Penrith, and I make desultory efforts to keep my garden tidy, knowing that I will not be here to see it return to its splendor in Spring.
Belongings are disappearing; sold or given away. The couch, where our small family gathers at night to eat snacks and watch tv together, remains an island of tranquility amid this churning sea of upheaval. We reassure ourselves that this bitter emotional sediment will settle once we are “there”. “There” is the happy land, where boxes will miraculously unpack themselves, and our precious things will leap out, stretch, yawn and find themselves a place in the new house.
I try to imagine us, with cat and dog, lounging under the pergola, hiding from the Spanish summer sun, planning our garden for the new season; cat stretched on the table, dog under my chair. I try to remember what the birds of Ferriera sounded like.
This new life; it is but three weeks away.