going

Tonight we locked the door for the last time on the only house I've ever mothered in, the only place my child knows, the place where we lived and laughed and cried and slept for the past five years and drove off into the rainy night with all of our earthly belongings in the back of the car.

It's on, this thing. We've tied up loose ends and sold all our stuff and said our goodbyes and had one last beer. Our friends were fantastic, so many folks came by and took a plate or a book or a microwave or even our half eaten food. Between them and seven trips to goodwill we somehow managed to make it all work an hour before our deadline came due. We three drove on into the night until we couldn't stand it any longer and stopped in a roadside motel, almost uncaring what the room looks like as long as it's cheap. I cried as we left town, the finality of our journey both calming and unsettling, a girl can only take so much leaving until she falls to her knees to and from grace.

My child, she sleeps and we sit talking aimlessly, exhausted. Spent from the goodbyes, from the community we are leaving, from the journey we are embarking, the unknowing is exhilarating and disconcerting all at once. We'll spend a few weeks in So Cal and then head further south, crossing borders and customs and will watch everything we know fly out the window behind us, hopefully freeing up space in our souls so we can drink the new in.

The officiality of today hasn't left me, there is no turning back and thankfully I don't want to, at least not yet. I ache from my ankles to my skull, eight hours of packing and repacking can do that to a girl and yet it's a good kind of ache, the one that says we've worked hard to get to here and everything so far has fallen blessedly into place.