I had a home, but it was torn apart, literally, thrown unceremoniously into boxes by "professional" packers high on marijuana.
One of our packers, the highest one with the utterly blank blue eyes, was Really Bad. His idea of packing:
- Stuff some packing paper into bottom of box.
- Up-end organized drawer into said box. Continue up-ending organized drawers until box is almost full.
- Stuff some more packing paper over the top.
- Seal box with packing tape and label as "misc." ( I am really beginning to despise the word "misc.")
This house feels a little bit like a beach house, except for all the boxes and packing paper everywhere, and the way the furniture awkwardly doesn't fit. But it feels a little like a beach house, and the way we go to the store, bring home bags of food that is not from Wegman's and try to cook it in whatever way we can improvise, that feels like a beach house too, sort of. This morning I opened the refrigerator door and had the involuntary thought, "I think I would really like to go home now."
But home isn't there. The house is... I think of it, empty, waiting for the new owners to close, and how I hope they love it. But the contents of home have all been yanked out and deposited here for me to sort through. And I am not any good at sorting.
Homemaker. I wish!