I don’t do a lot of personal posting here, though I’ve been told I should.
I’m sitting at this desk taking a break from packing boxes. I’ve already packed at least 40 boxes, half of which I’ve actually had to somewhat reassemble thanks to the incredible skill of the stock people at Publix who swiftly turn them into flat squares of cardboard.
I don’t mind reassembling them. I’ve been doing it for days and I actually like the fact that every box is different because I can then find the perfect things to go inside. It’s almost as if… as we prepare to move into a new home that will better fit our families, so our stuff goes inside little temporary homes that better fit them.
We’ve been shopping for a new house for almost two years. Sure we were probably pickier than most (thank you Raquel, you’re a Saint for putting up with us) but we were also at times unlucky… dealing with people who were either crazy or batshit crazy in their absurd expectations or simply in not even returning a phone call.
We’ve both been dying to move. This place I sit in right now is entirely too small. Comically small.
And yet a couple of nights ago as we finished watching a movie, my wife and I looked at each other and both welled up with tears. We’re thrilled to move into a new home that will better fit the outrageous enormity of little ones we’ve created… but at the same time this is the home I brought her into as my wife, this is the home all four of our adorable little monsters came to from the hospital, where they all learned how to crawl and where all of the most amazing memories of our lives so far were made. This is the home that when Lisette and I would say “it’s too small” our daughter, our eldest, answered “our home is perfect, it’s a castle!”
I’d like to think that the new house will allow us to create new amazing memories, and I’m sure it will… but the realist inside me knows that at least from the pure wonderment of it all… nothing compares to the incredible feelings we experienced when we first brought those delicate little bundles of … yeah spit-up and diapers… into our home.
Oh yes, the photos.
you often hear how people who are in a fire save their loved ones and pets and then the next thing they save is their photographs. As a professional photographer I even have a vested interest in repeating that you often hear how people who are in a fire save… LOL … the reason is obvious of course… pretty much everything else could easily be replaced with a big enough credit card, but in many cases nothing will bring back those prints if they are lost.
But we haven’t had a fire, and yet the photos on our walls are haunting me.
I’ve packed the whole living room already and am well on my weay to be done with every other room. Twice already Lisette has said “hey if you want you can put the photos in boxes too”
I’ve put the books, the candles, the wrought iron objects, things we’ve picked up along the way. They’re in boxes, carefully packed, carefully labeled, ready to be moved.
Not the photos.
I’ve tried, but can’t
I never thought of this before but I’m starting to think that there’s another reason why people in a fire grab their photos. Maybe other than the soft “things” made of flesh and blood and warm and cuddly, maybe the photos themselves are what make this house our home. Maybe that’s why when starting at a new job, often the first thing we place on the new desk is a photo of a loved one.
I will have to take them down. We close in 7 days.