Moving Day

We’ve got six cardboard boxes piled against one wall of our studio apartment, and two boxes, three suitcases and two pieces of art, crowned with my gigantic pregnancy body pillow, leaning against the other.

I’ve winnowed down the clothes in our closet (coming to the sobering realization along the way, that if I pack up all of the clothes that no longer fit me, I’m left with one pair of jeans, two jumpers and three t-shirts to clothe this ever expanding body of mine through the sweaty days of summer. Somehow having all those pretty dresses filling up the closet made me feel like I had tons and tons of options to choose from each morning, even if none of them fit anymore).

Next week it’s moving day.

Again.

I’ve lost track of how many times I’ve moved in my life. Fifteen? Twenty? Twenty five? Once the door to my “home” was firmly shut behind me, I never really connected with any other abode, as I drifted from one side of Brooklyn to the other, shlepping my suitcases from a basement closet to a wooden box suspended from a ceiling to one of three bedrooms in a third floor walkup and on and on.

This move is also a temporary move, to a sublet in Manhattan. But it’s the final temporary move, at least for a while. After this, the apartment my husband and I recently bought should be ready* for occupation. It’s hard to imagine as I go through this familiar ritual of sorting old diaries and stacking piles of books, but this piece of this journey is coming to an end. In a matter of months, I’m going home.

*fingers crossed, bli ayn hara, please Jesus, Vishnu and Adonay, poo poo and poo